


Fairyfyre

by Magnificent_Beast



Series: A Werewolf is a Human Being [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Disability, F/F, F/M, Feminist Themes, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 75,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23143000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnificent_Beast/pseuds/Magnificent_Beast
Summary: Sequel to Full Moon. Seven years after the end of the war, Hermione is pursuing her career in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, where her agenda includes ending discrimination against werewolves. But wizards from the Dark side are already regrouping and are determined to roll back social change by any means necessary, including manipulating the werewolves again. This story is AU compared with postwar canon.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Male Character/Original Female Character
Series: A Werewolf is a Human Being [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663597
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue

_October 5, 1998 – Full Moon_

The bright, nearly white disk of the moon shone irregularly through roiling clouds on the little graveyard by the forest. The castle was a dark mass in the distance, the mountains a dull dark void still farther back. From the direction of the mountains, a more opaque cloud moved in and hung low in the sky. A voice from within it whispered:

“ _Hestia faerie focus!_ ”

Suddenly a white shaft of lightning jumped from the base of the cloud to a spot on the ground over one of the graves. From the point on the ground where it struck, a bright white flame shot up and burned steadily. If anyone had been there to see, as many people did on many nights that followed, they might have noticed a clump of unearthly-looking white flowers growing near this flame, and could have read by its light the following inscription on the stone belonging to the grave:

REMUS LUPIN 1960-1998 and NYMPHADORA TONKS 1973-1998

SHAPESHIFTERS WHO FOUND THEIR TRUE FORM


	2. The Pure-Blood Citizens' Council

_Wednesday October 12, 2005 – Waxing Gibbous_

_Seven years later_

It was evening in the dining hall of the Malfoy Manor, and a house-elf had efficiently supervised the clearing of the long table. Candles in silver holders hovered near the surrounding walls, and a candelabrum above the table, and their light mingled with light from a waxing gibbous moon that shone through the ornate windows. A group mostly of men but including two women, one of whom was Narcissa Malfoy, sat around the table, most of them looking grim. Five years in Azkaban had taken some toll on Lucius Malfoy. His always very fair blond hair was now mostly white and his face was gaunt, his voice and manner had lost some of their old smoothness, and there sometimes was a strange glitter in his formerly cold grey eyes, but he sat at the head of the table, presiding over the meeting with the assurance that he was the patriarch of the most notable family and the most important person there.

“Now to business, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “As you all know, this is a meeting of the Dragon Blood Society.” There was some laughter. “Or should I say,” he continued more significantly, “the Pure-Blood Citizens’ Council.”

“Our way of life is under fresh attacks every day. This government is the worst we have ever had. The Werewolf Anti-Discrimination Act guarantees the admission of werewolves to educational institutions, including Hogwarts, and will lead to their entry into all types of employment. Our children will be forced to go to school with them, and may be bitten and become werewolves themselves. They may be employed as teachers, and have who knows what influence on our children. Some will forget their potion and attack us. Some may even pretend they want to co-operate in our society just to better position themselves for the attack.

“I don’t have to tell you all what happened today: the chief promoter of this outrageous measure, the Mudblood Hermione Granger, though little more than a child, has been promoted to the position of head of the Beings Division at the Ministry’s Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

A few people hissed. A shadow seemed to fall on the handsome young face of Draco Malfoy, who was seated beside his mother, who herself sat on the right side of her husband.

“It won’t stop at werewolves,” continued Lucius. “A worse danger is looming. That Mudblood bitch is determined to deprive us of our house-elves. Head of the Beings Division at twenty-five? In another ten years she’ll be head of the department if we don’t stop her soon.”

“Everyone knows her ideas about house-elves are ridiculous,” said a middle-aged man on the other side of the table. “They wouldn’t survive a day outside of our service. She started trying to liberate the Hogwarts house-elves when she was a student, and they wanted no part of it. Hey! House-elf!” he called out. The house-elf who had been waiting on them immediately appeared. “Would you like to leave this house and have to search for a job with wages?”

Lucius Malfoy looked sharply at the elf, who caught his master’s eye before answering the other man. “Of course not, sir,” he answered. There was some laughter, but the Malfoys looked serious.

“You are happy in this house, aren’t you, Oojah?” said Lucius.

“Oh yes, sir, very happy.”

“You may be excused,” said Lucius. The elf disappeared.

“How is it possible that such a young, inexperienced, and obviously foolish person has been promoted to such a high position?” said the other man who had spoken, fixing his attention on a man sitting on the same side as Narcissa and Draco. “You have some contacts at the Ministry still, don’t you, Harold? Might they still reconsider?” Harold LeClair had been head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures during most of the time that Death Eaters had controlled the Ministry.

“The staff of the Ministry was greatly depleted by the political purge of so-called collaborators that followed the war. I wasn’t the only one who lost his job you know, Henry. Many young and sometimes unqualified people have risen very quickly. If you want an idea of the current political climate of the Ministry, consider this: they have voted to remove the ‘Troll’ grade from academic grading altogether, on the grounds that the name reflects bias. ‘Dreadful’ and ‘Troll’ are now considered too harsh for our children, and are to be replaced with a single grade: ‘Failed.’ No doubt trolls will soon be attending Hogwarts as well.”

“You jest, Harold?”

“Would that I did.”

“But will she really try to move on the house-elves? What plan can she possibly have?”

“Something about the mandatory payment of wages. If the elves won’t accept them they will go to some transitional fund. I think she represents something worse even than creature-loving liberalism. I think she is—a socialist.”

Some faces around the table looked puzzled. “Is that some Muggle creed?” one of the men asked.

“A Muggle creed indeed,” said LeClair grimly. “Completely opposed to everything that real wizards stand for. This income tax is just their foot in the door. What might it be next? A doling out of wizard gold, so Mudbloods can take some home to their Muggle families?”

“She must be stopped,” said Lucius, looking grimmer than ever. The mention of gold had brought the strange glitter to his eyes.

“Indeed, she must be stopped,” agreed LeClair, “and in spite of what I said, I think it may be possible to bring her down. These things come in cycles. Disasters will come from these policies, and our enemies must be made to own them. There are plenty of people who have always known Granger’s ideas are unrealistic, and if we play it right, there may soon be many more. People resent the arrogance that is so inappropriate to her age and—“ His eyes met those of the other woman at the table, who had looked at him sharply, and he hesitated.

“Play it right?” said Lucius Malfoy. “Do you have a plan in mind, Harold?”

“Yes. I think the werewolves may be useful to us again. The Wolfsbane Potion cannot be made without risking the lives of the poor fools who collect blueworms and the werewolf flower. People must be made to realize that the Ministry has no business sending anyone on such a mission for such a dubious purpose. A few werewolf attacks, either by werewolves in the woods or by potion skippers, might just shift opinion our way. ”

“But will those attacks happen soon enough?” chimed in another man.

“I think we may be able to give them some encouragement. Let us not forget our dear departed comrade, Fenrir Greyback.” There was some malicious laughter. Greyback had been one of a very small number of Death Eaters who had been put to death at the end of the war, because the government and public feared that a werewolf might escape from Azkaban.

“With this new law and the potion available, will the werewolves still have a motive for blood revenge?” asked Draco Malfoy. An expression of displeasure crossed his father’s face at these words.

“There are still werewolves that can be worked with,” continued LeClair. “The spirit of Fenrir Greyback is not dead. We can assure them that we, at least, do not seek to deprive them of their greatest pleasure. Many of them still know nothing of the Wolfsbane Potion but its name, and that wolfsbane is poisonous, especially to werewolves. Werewolves are not as intelligent as normal people. Our science showed long ago that each lycanthropic transformation has a lasting effect on the brain, though our degenerate society’s political police have denied it.”

“You, Bentley, had some contacts among the werewolves, did you not?” said Lucius to a younger man near the end of the table. “Do you think the situation can yet be salvaged?”

“I think so,” said Bentley. “I think Mr. LeClair and I have some things to discuss.”

“Your host proposes a toast, then,” said Malfoy, raising his glass with a malicious glitter in his eyes. “Long live the spirit of Fenrir Greyback, who tried to help his superiors to eternal life!”

“Hear, hear!”


	3. The First Strike

_Tuesday, October 18, 2005 -- Full Moon_

**The Daily Prophet**

October 18th, 2005

WIZARD KILLED, WITCH DISAPPEARED IN

LUNASTURTIA-GATHERING OUTING

> Wizard Timothy Smith and witch Sally Wolvercote, both 21, temporary employees of the Ministry of Magic, were apparently attacked by one or more werewolves Monday evening while on an expedition to gather lunasturtia, also known as the werewolf flower, in Beerden Forest. Lunasturtia is an essential ingredient in the Wolfsbane Potion, the potion taken by werewolves to make their transformations harmless. Smith’s body was discovered at about 9:00 PM BST by a werewolf capture team dispatched to see why they had not returned. The body was partially eaten and showed typical signs of a werewolf attack. The team did not locate the werewolf. Sally Wolvercote is missing, and Magical Law Enforcement workers were dispatched to Beerden early this morning to look for traces.
> 
> Since the approval of the standard recipe for the Wolfsbane Potion four years ago, the Ministry has taken responsibility for the risky gathering of its three perishable ingredients: wolfsbane, blueworms and lunasturtia, which must be collected at the full moon. Last year’s passage of the Werewolf Anti-Discrimination Act has greatly increased demand for the potion, which by law must be made available free to any werewolf who wants it. Lunasturtia only grows in two forests, Beerden and Morden, which have long been werewolf haunts. Werewolves have been warned to stay away from Beerden, the smaller of the two, so that the plant may be harvested there. The recent drive to increase production of the potion has necessitated an increase in the length of time spent by the harvesters in what is now a monthly expedition, with the consequences that many have long feared.  
>   
> 

Hermione pushed the paper away from her on her desk and tried to compose her thoughts, but her panic, started over ten hours ago, had not yet subsided. Her first week in her new position as head of the Beings division was off to a catastrophic start. In her previous position as head of Werewolf Support Services, she had supervised the full moon gathering of ingredients for the Wolfsbane Potion, and had always stayed at work until the field workers returned with the ingredients. Yesterday evening she had chosen to do the same, in order to support her co-workers, and the ones with the most dangerous task had not returned at all.

Usually the lunasturtia harvesters started in the forest just after moonrise, did their work quickly, and were back in about two hours. The werewolf capture team was always on call in the office at the full moon, but it had been years since they were deployed, because for years there had been no werewolf attacks. The capture team did not go out with the harvesting team because they might be needed somewhere else, and it had been thought their presence might be cumbersome to the harvesters, who went on broomsticks and started by inspecting the forest from above, and were under directions not to enter it anyway if they saw any sign of werewolves. Their mission was not to capture werewolves. Werewolves had been amply warned to stay away from Beerden at the full moon ever since the Ministry had started harvesting there, and Hermione had trusted to their cooperation and good intentions, which up until now had seemed to work. 

Up until now. When the harvesters did not return on time she had deployed the capture team, which soon sent back word that they had found Smith's body, but no sign of the werewolf who had apparently attacked him, or of Wolvercote. She had waited all night for further news that never came. Only at dawn could she request help from Magical Law Enforcement in the search for the missing witch. If at least they had caught the werewolf, they might have found out his motive or whether it had been an accident. The capture team was out of practice. She felt responsible for not having been better prepared for something like this.

It was now almost eight in the morning, and a few other employees were starting to trickle into the Ministry. In the wee hours she had persuaded the new head of Werewolf Support Services to go home and get some sleep, knowing that he was still in training and that the werewolves would be needing plenty of support in the days ahead. _Not that they ever come here for that anyway_ , she thought sadly, in spite of all the changes she had worked so hard to make.

The _Prophet_ must have just managed to get the story into this morning's paper, which she had retrieved from her department's mail bin. The paper seemed to be twisting the story in a manner she thought was inaccurate and didn’t bode well, suggesting that it was the Ministry’s commitment to make the potion available as needed, or the fact that more werewolves now wanted to take it, that was the cause of the tragedy… She flipped through the rest of the paper and when her eye fell on the opinion page, her stomach gave a new lurch. James Fenwick, a columnist she had always disliked, was already at it:

**  
Creatures Granger Has Blood On Her Hands**

> Always beware of an idealist. Someone too inexperienced and naïve has overhauled Ministry policy regarding werewolves, and we are seeing the predictable result of basing government policy on simplistic wishful thinking. Hermione Granger has always insisted that “a werewolf is a human being”, seemingly forgetting that for one night a month a werewolf is a powerful monster with a maniacal compulsion to kill humans.
> 
> We all know what policy toward werewolves worked well enough for decades before Miss Granger moved into the Ministry. Over the centuries, the Wizarding World had worked out a system of dealing with these creatures that kept things from getting out of hand. Most werewolves preferred to live separately from normal wizards, but those who were particularly motivated to work in the mainstream world could do so at the discretion of the employer who hired them. An employer could use his own judgment regarding the character of the werewolf and the responsibility of the job, given the great danger if one was not a match for the other. When the Wolfsbane Potion came along, the whole process of its manufacture, including the gathering of ingredients, was handled by professional potion-makers, and it was available to those werewolves who were committed enough to taking it that they would put down the money to pay for it.
> 
> We are only beginning to see the outcome of the ill-considered Werewolf Anti-Discrimination Act. Now any werewolf not hired for a job can claim discrimination, and may force the issue if the employer can’t give a reason that satisfies the government. No exception is even made for jobs such as teaching that involve working with children. We may use no more discretion in hiring werewolves than in hiring normal wizards, because the current Ministry says there is no difference. It is now politically incorrect to raise the unresolved question of whether the transformations of werewolves leave any lasting changes in their brain functioning, a reasonable one considering what a large criminal element we have always seen in the werewolf population. Moreover, since the Ministry classified the Wolfsbane Potion as an essential medical potion, they have been hiring inadequately trained amateurs to collect its perishable ingredients, a dangerous job that was best left to professional apothecaries and their assistants. The pressure to integrate all werewolves into the workforce and supply them all with the potion means greater risk, not only to the harvesters, but because the werewolves now guaranteed a free supply will include those who can’t be trusted always to take it. We now see the first casualties.
> 
> There have been some more insidious changes that have not been as well publicized. During her tenure as head of Werewolf Support Services, Miss Granger amazingly was permitted to remove everything concerning werewolves from the Beast Division, which meant the loss of the traditional Werewolf Registry and Werewolf Capture section. The new Act calls for the removal of werewolf killing and capture from the Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum. Apparently Miss Granger is so confident in her solution that she thinks the Ministry need no longer have the capacity for werewolf capture.
> 
> Miss Granger’s impressive academic record and her war hero status as one of Harry Potter’s sidekicks have led many to place too much confidence in someone who does not yet have the requisite life experience for such a responsible position. Let us also not forget that she came from the Muggle world, where there are no non-human beings, which means it may take her still longer to see the Wizarding World as it really is. One is reminded of past failed attempts to treat other beings equally without recognizing their differences, such as the summit called by the 14th century Wizard Council chief Elfrida Clagg, which ended in mayhem. It is not too late to reverse this experiment in social engineering. The Wizengamot should revoke the Werewolf Anti-Discrimination Act and another occupation should be found for the talented young Miss Granger.

There were several inaccuracies in this piece. As head of Werewolf Support Services she had indeed fought successfully for the removal of the werewolf section from the Beast Division and for placing everything concerning werewolves in the Beings Division under the auspices of WSS. The werewolf capture team had been renamed Werewolf Emergency Services, but its staff and their training requirements had not changed, and they were usually still referred to as the capture team. The Werewolf Registry was now part of WSS and the Register was only as incomplete as it had been before this change.

The Werewolf Anti-Discrimination Act did call for a change in the Hogwarts curriculum regarding werewolves. It was to include capture and escape from werewolves with an emphasis on non-lethal means, as well as long overdue education on lycanthropy as a magical malady affecting humans and how it could preferably be handled before reaching the point where killing was necessary. This was a decision she would defend, because she remembered how werewolves had been taught simply as “Dark Creatures” in Defense Against the Dark Arts class when she was a student, and she knew that when taught to kill them the children did not gain any understanding that if they killed a werewolf they were killing a human being. Harry Potter, who was now the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, agreed with her on this.

There was a greater underlying stupidity in Fenwick’s analysis. Of course the reason so many werewolves had always resorted to criminal activities to support themselves was because they had such a hard time gaining employment, just the condition that the new law was meant to change, and he was suggesting this was evidence of a brain defect? And when it was up to the apothecaries they never made the potion, because there was no money in it, because hardly any werewolves could afford to buy it, and in those days more people were killed or bitten by werewolves. This was the first such incident since the Ministry had started paying for the ingredients so it could be made available for free like all essential medical potions. Were “normal wizards” better off with werewolves around who were trapped in poverty and driven to crime to support themselves, and who couldn't afford to buy the potion? As to what he said about herself, she had had more “life experience” during the fight against Voldemort, especially the last year of it, than most wizards had in a lifetime. It seemed ominous to her that Fenwick felt free to play on anti-Muggle-born bias as well as to characterize werewolves as non-human.

But there was one point that she felt was justified. When the new standard recipe for the Wolfsbane Potion had been tried and approved a few years after the war, and the Ministry had reclassified it as an essential medical potion, they had hired temporary employees for the once-a-month job of gathering its three perishable ingredients, two of which, blueworms and lunasturtia, were dangerous to harvest, blueworms because they lived only near Devil’s Snare, one of the most dangerous magical plants. The Ministry had been virtually bankrupt at the end of the war, and had offered brief and she now realized inadequate training to any young daredevil in need of quick money who would undertake the job. The job had remained temporary and easily obtained and was still done by young daredevils in need of quick money, and Hermione realized this was wrong and could now be changed, for the Ministry was no longer bankrupt.

It was now several years since the Wizengamot had approved an income tax, something that had never existed before in the Wizarding World, and the new revenue was making it possible for the Ministry to do many needed things. It had been bitterly opposed by most wealthy wizards, but there had been some disillusionment with the very wealthy in post-war society, as many of them were known to have had Death Eater sympathies and were unwilling to pitch in voluntarily for the reconstruction that was obviously needed. Unlike the Werewolf Act, which was very controversial, the income tax had broad popular support, though some lackeys of the wealthy, of which Fenwick had been one, had opposed it in the press.

She would come up with a proposal to professionalize the harvester position. The harvesters should be trained as Werewolf Emergency Service workers, which was a permanent, full-time position. That meant only accepting candidates with NEWTs in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and that their training would include the material on werewolf killing that had been removed from the Hogwarts curriculum. Some people should be sent in each capacity, as harvesters and as Emergency Service workers, as long as the harvest was being done in a place where a werewolf might show up. She would talk to her department head about requesting the necessary funds to hire and train more professional help. She believed she could get approval for this, it being so obviously the right thing to do, and Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt would back her as he usually did.

As if in answer to her thoughts, a slip of yellow notepaper, the standard color of the in-department memos of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, wafted through her open office door and landed on her desk. She unfolded it and read:

_Hermione,_

_I would like to talk with you in my office at your earliest convenience._

_C.G._

Her boss Charlie Goyle, a distant relative of the Death Eater family of the same name, had a more informal style than most Ministry department heads. He was not bold and tended to go along to get along, but he had a willingness to hear reason over time and a reluctance to inflict harm on others that made the Death Eater government decide, later than in the case of most of the department heads they replaced, that they could neither trust nor control him, and they had replaced him with the eugenicist Harold LeClair. After the war LeClair had been dismissed and Goyle returned to the position. He had been receptive to her innovations, but she was not sure how committed he was to them, and she knew she owed her advancement at the Ministry more to her former war comrade Shacklebolt than to him.

She wanted to further collect her thoughts before meeting with him. If only anyone could figure out how to grow lunasturtia in a safe place, they would not have this problem with the harvest. Whenever they had tried to transplant one of the plants from Morden or Beerden it had always died. No one had wanted to touch the plant growing in the only other place it had been seen…

An image came to her mind of the Lupin grave with its strange, magical white flame that seemed to burn on nothing and the little clump of lunasturtia that grew nearby. After the war a little cemetery had been created on the Hogwarts grounds, mostly for people felled in the Battle of Hogwarts who were felt to have stronger ties to each other, the school, or the fight against Voldemort than to relatives buried elsewhere. It was a move cheered by the school’s ghosts, who had never had a hangout on the grounds as congenial as a graveyard, and who claimed it would enrich the students’ magical education.

The grave of Remus and Tonks had become something of a shrine both to werewolves and to veterans of the good fight. Most people assumed that the flame was some kind of magic known only to werewolves, for werewolves had always had a subculture of their own within the magical world, excluded as they had been from mainstream Wizarding society. Most people also assumed that either a werewolf had planted the lunasturtia plant or that it had sprouted there magically in honor of the werewolf and the first witch to knowingly marry one who lay beneath.

If anyone in the Wizarding World had planted it, or had any secrets about its cultivation, her department needed to make a serious effort to get them to come forward and tell what they knew. If there was any more information out there about this mysterious plant, the Ministry needed to find it. She already had a collection of reference books in her office. She turned to a bookshelf and pulled down a volume entitled _Materia Medica Magica_ , and located the following entry:

**  
Lunasturtia**

> Lunasturtia, also known as the werewolf flower, is a small perennial flowering plant with thick, shiny dark green leaves and luminous white flowers that can easily be seen by moonlight. The flower has six petals and both the petals and the leaves end in points. The flower has a sweet fragrance. The plant has only been found to grow in the forests of Morden and Beerden, both of which have long been frequented by werewolves. Though it survives throughout the month, it has only been known to grow or to flower on the night of the full moon.
> 
> Lunasturtia petals are an essential ingredient in the Wolfsbane Potion, a potion that counteracts the usual dementia experienced by werewolves in their wolf state. It enables werewolves to tolerate wolfsbane, which would otherwise be poisonous to them. It has also been reported by werewolves to ease the pain of their transformations. It was discovered in 1985 by Healer and potion-maker Damocles Belby, inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion.

Hermione knew that it was not unusual for a magical plant to grow in few places, in fact some only grew in one. What was unusual was that any knowledge of it was so recent. Were there really no earlier references to this plant, even if it had not been named? Evolution happened over millions of years, and even magical plants did not appear suddenly without human intervention. Her powerful research instinct was activated. She knew the first place to look for earlier references was the Hogwarts library, which was the best library in the Wizarding World, since the Wizarding World had no public library. She thought this was unfortunate and wondered whether it was a circumstance that might be changed in her lifetime with the help of the income tax. There was another subject she wanted to read up on as well, an even more mysterious one to her.

For hundreds of years no woman was known to have survived a werewolf attack, and no female werewolves had been seen. Conventional wisdom was that werewolves had a particular appetite, in which there was some sexual element, for the bodies of women, and that they ate all the women they caught, probably bones and all. It was also thought that being of the weaker sex, no witch had ever managed to escape a werewolf, though a wizard had occasionally done it.

Hermione could believe the part about the deviated sexual interest; she would never forget how Greyback had ogled her when she was being tortured at the Malfoy Manor and he had been promised the chance to finish her off, one of the most horrifying episodes of her life. But the part about wizards but not witches being strong enough to sometimes escape werewolves was dubious. It was true that most wizards were physically stronger than most witches, but the difference was trivial compared to the difference in strength between a human of either sex and a werewolf in his wolf state. No wizard or witch could outrun a werewolf or best him in a physical fight. What counted in such instances was magical skill, and witches had as much of that as wizards. The common attitude of wizards on the subject seemed typical to her of the type of mistake that wizards often made about witches.

Furthermore, there were references to female werewolves and even illustrations of them in some ancient wizard texts. These references had become less frequent in medieval times and in the modern era had disappeared altogether, and conventional wisdom also held that it was unknown whether the female werewolves had really existed, but Hermione thought that wizards had shown surprisingly little interest in seriously investigating the subject. _Was it absolutely certain that Sally Wolvercote was dead?_

The thought of the missing witch brought back both the dread and the guilt she had been pushing aside in her attempt to move forward with positive action. She had particularly liked Sally Wolvercote, who had been a young daredevil in need of quick money, but who had also done the work because she believed in it and wanted to help. She had been doing the job for two years now, the longest anyone had stayed at it yet. Hermione felt a physical pain in her insides when she thought of Sally’s parents receiving the news…

She would write to Harry, who was still her closest friend, and ask him to let her into the Hogwarts library. Harry was really her only close friend since her breakup with Ron two years earlier, which Ron had not yet sufficiently gotten over to enable them to be very good friends. She wanted to see Harry for support as well, to see him as soon as possible. She would send him a note asking whether she could come to the school that evening after work.

She wrote and addressed a note to Harry and then tossed a Crup biscuit out of her office door, casting a silent charm. Since the Ministry was underground, owls could not be sent out of it directly, and they used a Crup courier service to deliver mail to the Main Owlery on Diagon Alley. The biscuit was coded for her department and would locate the nearest courier, who would soon come to pick up the mail, which she placed in a bin in the corridor that was designated for this purpose.

She then wrote up a notice offering a reward for information on the plant. She knew that a substantial monetary reward would get the attention of werewolves, most of whom were still poor, and the Ministry need not actually distribute the money until they had verified that the information was helpful. She also wanted to seek information from the werewolves on who had gone to Beerden that night and whether he didn’t know about the harvest, but that would need to be handled much more discreetly, since it involved criminal behavior. Her notice read:

_  
200 Galleon Reward for New and Verifiable Information on Lunasturtia_

> _The Ministry of Magic is interested in gathering information about lunasturtia, also known as the werewolf flower. The only places this plant has been known to survive are in the forests of Morden and Beerden and on the grave of Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. It has only been known to grow and flower on the night of the full moon. It is an essential ingredient in the Wolfsbane Potion, an essential medical potion, as it counteracts the toxicity of wolfsbane. It is also known to mitigate the pain of the lycanthropic transformation. If you have any other information about this plant, including any involvement with its planting on the grave of Lupin and Tonks, your information would be invaluable to the Beings Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Ministry of Magic._

  
She touched the page with her wand and did a replication charm, holding her wand on the page until she had about fifty copies. She would take most of them to Werewolf Support Services so they could be given out to any werewolf who came in, but first she would need talk to Goyle, a prospect she had not been relishing.

She peered in his office door, which was open, and noticed there was a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ on his desk, at which he was now sitting with his back to her.

“Mr. Goyle?” she said. She still did not know whether she could call him by his first name, although he used hers.

He swiveled his chair around and faced her with a grim expression. “Well. A fine mess we’re in now, eh?”

Hermione was annoyed. She had the feeling that Goyle was more concerned with the public image of their department than with the tragic loss of life or what this would mean for the werewolves.

“Mr. Goyle, I have some ideas,” she said.

“Please sit down, Hermione,” he said, pointing to a chair. She sat down. “I know you always have plenty of ideas,” he said, “and so far you’ve been given the chance to implement just about all of them. Not everyone has agreed, and it may be time for me to listen to others as well. It may be that we’ve been moving too fast."

“What do you mean?”

“It may not be realistic to expect all werewolves to take the Wolfsbane Potion, and to try to supply enough for all of them. Obviously there are still some who won’t take it, perhaps including some who are picking up vouchers, now they suppose that agreeing to take the potion will mean they’re sure to find a job. The increase in production may mean that we’re overtaxing the harvesters. It may be that we’re overtaxing everyone, including the werewolves.”

“I do think that we are overtaxing the harvesters, and I have an idea to address that problem, but it doesn’t mean cutting back on production of the potion, which would be much more dangerous. We can’t go back on a commitment we’ve made to any werewolf who needs the potion.”

He folded his arms and looked at her. “Laws do get revised sometimes, Hermione. Sometimes it’s necessary to be flexible. You are very ambitious. But working in government means compromise, and this is something you have not learned yet. If you can’t, you may find another career might suit you better, and that would not be the end of your life. There are many witches and wizards in other enterprises who would be happy to have you work for them, clever and hardworking as you are.”

Hermione was a bit taken aback at what sounded like a threat. She suspected that Goyle was feeling threatened in his position, and that he would sacrifice hers to save his own.

“I know how much this means to you,” he said in a more understanding tone, “so please consider what it would mean for your agenda if there were an election -- a backlash sort -- and the likes of Harold LeClair were back in government.”

“Mr. Goyle,” she said, “it doesn’t stand to reason that making the potion more available means more danger of werewolf attacks. There have been far fewer such attacks since we have done so. But it is true that the lunasturtia harvest has been carried out in too risky a manner, and I believe we can solve that problem without cutting back on the harvest. Are you not willing to hear what I propose?”

“Go ahead.”

“I think we need to train some more Werewolf Emergency Service workers, and send some of them out to do the lunasturtia harvest, instead of hiring temporary workers for that job. We can request the necessary funding now that we have more revenues. I think we should cancel the next harvest but keep quiet about this, and of course try to find out in the meantime what werewolf went to Beerden last night and how it happened. Enough potion is now in production that we can afford to postpone the harvest.”

“Do you think that we can recruit more people for werewolf capture and get them trained in a couple of months, considering what just happened?”

“We might have to hold off on the harvest for longer, but yes, I do think we can recruit people. Werewolf capture was always a dangerous job, and there were always people willing to do it if they were adequately trained and paid. There are still witches and wizards in need of jobs, and this one has gotten a reputation for being less dangerous than it used to be. This tragedy returns it to what it was before, but I believe that there are witches or wizards who will take the challenge if they are paid so they can make a full-time commitment to the training, which should continue for a full year. We should only take candidates with NEWTs in Defense Against the Dark Arts, as was always required of werewolf capturers. Witches and wizards with talent in this area like to have an outlet for it, and not all of them are accepted for Auror training, which needs to be even more selective. If we could find harvesters when that was not a good job, which we always did, I am confident we can find fresh candidates for this one."

Goyle looked uncertain. Hermione continued.

“I’m hoping for an even better possibility, that it may be that eventually we may not need to harvest from this forest. It is surprising how little we know about lunasturtia, and since it seems that someone may have planted it on the Lupin grave, we should try to find out whether it can possibly be grown elsewhere. I think we should offer a monetary reward for information about this. I have written one up that can be submitted to _The_ _Daily Prophet_ and distributed to werewolves who use our services, as well as posted in the Den and other places interested people will see it.

“There are werewolves who never come here, and I believe we still need to do more outreach to make sure they all know about the harvest, as well as try to find out why anyone went there last night and whether they knew. If we keep next month’s cancellation a secret, we can survey Beerden forest at the next full moon and see whether anyone turns up there. I don’t think we can spare the capture team until we know where they are needed, but we could request help from Magical Law Enforcement to survey the forest by broom, and they can send a night owl if they see signs of activity, and then we can deploy the capture team. If a werewolf comes again, we will capture him and he can be questioned in the morning.”

“Magical Law Enforcement will want to be on this case anyway, since the werewolf involved committed a serious crime.”

“I think it would be best if they keep a low profile and leave talking to the werewolves to us for the next month, because werewolves are likely to see Magical Law Enforcement as more hostile to them and are less likely to tell them the truth.” Hermione expected opposition on this, but to her surprise she saw a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Goyle’s mouth.

“I might’ve known you’d be all over it. Well, that sounds like a reasonable plan, Hermione. Why don’t you write up a proposal for the things that need funding and I’ll sign it and send it up to the Minister.”

“Would you like to call a meeting together with the staff of Werewolf Support Services so that we can review all this with them?” she suggested.

“No, no, you talk to them,” he said with a dismissive gesture.

“Right,” she said, pursing her lips for a few seconds. “Will that be all for now, then?”

“For now, yes. Come the full moon, we’ll see what happens.” Then he looked at her as if he had only just noticed that she had been up all night. “Please go home and get some sleep if you need to,” he added. “No sense in making yourself ill.”

“Thank you,” she said, and seeing he was interested in no further discussion, returned to her office. At the moment she could not think of going home and sleeping. She picked up a stack of the notices she had printed and walked over to Werewolf Support Services.

Werewolf Support Services included the offices where the staff worked as well as a lounge area in front for the comfort of those who used their services. As Hermione walked into the lounge she felt a little of her customary sadness, though was not surprised, to find it empty as usual. WSS distributed the vouchers that werewolves took to the apothecaries for a free supply of the potion, and werewolves came to pick up the vouchers, but they seldom made use of the job placement services or other types of counseling that were offered. They did not sit around on the sofas or drink the tea or enjoy the proffered reading materials, and only occasionally picked up one of her pamphlets. Her eye fell on the first one she had written when she had joined the department:

A WEREWOLF IS A HUMAN BEING

This was as timely as ever. There were a couple more she had produced since.

LYCANTHROPY: WHAT FAMILY AND FRIENDS SHOULD KNOW

And, since the passage of the Werewolf Act:

ARE YOU A WEREWOLF?

KNOW YOUR RIGHTS AND RESPONSIBILITIES 

Before the Act werewolves had not had any legal rights, though they had been subjected to a Werewolf Code of Conduct since 1637.

The new head of WSS, Douglas Forrester, was a quiet man who liked the society of werewolves. Hermione had thought it was a pity that a werewolf could not have the job, but it had been considered necessary for the person who held it to be on duty at the full moon. Mr. Forrester was looking as pale and grim as might be expected, and for a moment she thought to give him a hug, but decided against it. She told him about her conversation with Goyle and gave him the stack of notices, and they agreed to call in the whole WSS staff for a meeting later that day to review their plans. As she passed through the lounge area again on her way back to her office, it occurred to her that there was someone else she wished she could talk to about their outreach to the werewolves.

Steve Gillyfeld was the Healer who had led the clinical trial for the new standard recipe for the Wolfsbane Potion over four years earlier, and was the person outside of the government who had done most to promote the passage of the Werewolf Anti-Discrimination Act. Hermione had been impressed to find out that during the clinical trial he had taken the potion himself to reassure the werewolves that it was safe, and had several times gone to the Den to recruit participants for the trial and later to encourage werewolves to make use of the potion when it had been proven safe and effective.

The Den was a large underground drinking hole off of Knockturn Alley that was owned and run by werewolves and that during the long time of their exile from mainstream Wizarding society had been their evening hangout and the center of their social life. It was a gambling den and a place where illegal activities were often planned and executed, and no one else who was not a werewolf would have thought of setting foot in the place, unless to profit from some illegal trade, which even few non-werewolf crooks dared to do. The Ministry had given the place a wide berth for decades, preferring to leave werewolves such a space for their own activities if it kept them out of sight of other wizards, who for the most part preferred them out of sight.

Three years ago, when she had been head of Werewolf Support Services, she had paid a visit there to announce the policy changes the department had made and to encourage werewolves to use their services. She had felt decidedly unwelcome there, and was not sure whether this was more because she was a woman, probably the first ever seen there, or because she was from the Ministry, but she suspected both.

Gillyfeld had also testified before the Wizengamot when they had held hearings on the passage of the Act, and Hermione believed it would not have passed without him. Minister Shacklebolt had supported the measure, but everyone knew that Hermione was its chief promoter within the government, and since she was so young and known to be so idealistic, many people had doubted her judgment, and it had made a difference to have everything she said backed up by the word of an experienced professional Healer. The word of werewolves also carried less weight, and Gillyfeld had supported the testimony of the werewolves who spoke out as well.

She would never forget the day of his testimony. When he had shown up in his Healer’s uniform, as if he had just come from work, she had thought this showed a surprisingly casual attitude toward the Wizengamot, and was afraid it might not bode well regarding how prepared he was. But then he had spoken with such feeling about how unnecessary the separation of werewolves was, how many capable werewolves had been driven underground by employment discrimination when they would prefer a good job to criminal activity just as much as anyone else would, and how being unable to afford the potion had put them in a vicious cycle, that Hermione had thought: _that could be me talking_. He spoke of how werewolves he had known personally had been affected by discrimination, and what a loss this was to society as well as to them, and she thought that she had never heard her own views so well expressed out of someone else’s mouth. He spoke with a confident optimism that reaffirmed her own faith in what she was doing. The more rebellious thought had also come into her mind: _I have more in common with this man than with the man I am going to marry_.

She had been engaged to Ron since she had finished school a year after the end of the war, but she had continually postponed their marriage because she had wanted to put all her energy into pursuing the career that meant so much to her, and she knew that Ron wanted to have children and that he might want to start having them as soon as they were married. Ron had understood this, and at some point had told her that he would be willing take time off from work himself to be the one most responsible for child care, since her career was more important than his was. She really had been moved by this proof of his love, and thought this might work in the case of one baby, but she suspected deep down that he wanted to have a large family like the one he came from, and that in the long run she would be the one most responsible for child care because that was the way of the world. But her reaction to Gillyfeld's testimony pushed her towards facing her increasing doubts about something else.

She did love Ron, but there had always been something fundamentally different in their view of things. She had long attributed the fact that he was more conventional than either herself or Harry to his having grown up in the Wizarding World while they had come to it as outsiders, but as an adult she had to realize there was more to it than that. He was capable of plenty of indignation about injustice, but always within limits that it came naturally to her, but not to him, to see beyond. She had latched on, too hard she finally had to admit, to any evidence she could find that he felt the same way she did, and she realized that she had always been looking for something that she was not sure was really there. This was not necessarily a reason not to marry; many people were married who were at least as different as they were. Mrs. Weasley was much more conventional than Mr. Weasley, and they had had a long and happy marriage. But Hermione had noticed that there were people who spent their whole married lives kidding themselves about how much their spouses agreed with them, and she did not want to be one of them. She had come to have doubts about whether she wanted to marry anyone. She felt that she owed it to Ron as well as to herself to be honest about this, and had finally broken off their engagement.

When she re-entered her office her train of thought was cut short at the sight of two pieces of mail on her desk. One was a lavender paper airplane, an interdepartmental memo, the other a piece of mail from outside, which she saw was a reply from Harry. She opened that one first.

_  
Hermione,_

_I’ll be in my office from 5:30 on. Come on over._

_Love,_

_Harry_

She opened the lavender airplane with a bit of anxiety, and was somewhat relieved to find it was just a note from Arthur Weasley, who still worked in Magical Law Enforcement.

_Hermione,_

_Would you like to meet me for lunch? I will be alone in the cafeteria at 11:30, or let me know if another time is better for you. I would like to talk to you._

_Arthur_

Since her breakup with Ron, she had not always been completely comfortable with his parents either, since she knew that they had been looking forward to having her as a daughter-in-law and that they still hoped she would change her mind. But when it came to her work Mr. Weasley had always been an ally, and this might be why he wanted to see her. She had never forgotten how when she had started agitating for house-elf rights as a schoolgirl and Ron had made fun of her, Harry had been indifferent, and Molly could be heard to say that she wished she could afford a house-elf herself, Arthur had quietly told her that he agreed with her, and from the time she came to work at the Ministry she had found that he really did. She wrote on the other side of the paper that she would be glad to meet him, refolded it, and directed it back to his office.

She then composed a letter to Gillyfeld explaining that she would like to get his feedback about the recent tragedy and her department’s relations with the werewolves, and asking whether he would be willing to meet with her. She felt rather shy about this, since she had never met him in private, did not doubt that he was very busy, and it was years since she knew that he had involved himself in the issue. But he had involved himself in it with such dedication that she thought he must still be interested, and that he might have more intelligence than anyone at the Ministry. When she had written the letter, without giving herself time to hesitate, she threw out another Crup biscuit.

***

When she walked into the cafeteria she saw Arthur sitting at a table near the back, seemingly as far away from everyone else as possible. Mr. Weasley’s good humor had never been as consistent since the loss of one of his children in the war, but she had not seen him look this grim-faced in years. She sat down across from him and he came straight to the point without even a word of greeting.

“Hermione, I suspect foul play,” he said.

“Foul play?” repeated Hermione, a bit puzzled. “You mean you think the werewolf went there on purpose to attack the harvesters?”

“I mean I think some wizards with a bigger agenda somehow put some werewolf up to this.”

“Really? A lot of people said this would happen sooner or later. I feel like I’m to blame—that some of the criticism is justified.”

“That’s why I wanted to tell you what I think. You’ve done as good a job as you could getting the message out to the werewolves. Why should this happen now, after four years with no such incident? And don’t tell me what _The_ _Daily Prophet_ says, I’ve already read it. They’ve always been slow to pick up on the activities of Dark Magic pranksters.”

“Are those activities coming back already?” said Hermione in dismay. “Is your department onto it?”

“Well, someone gave me a tip that a group of former Voldemort supporters and other like-minded people have been meeting at the Malfoy house.” Most people referred to Voldemort by his name now that they were sure he was gone forever. “We are not in the business of spying on gatherings of our citizens without any evidence of criminal activity. But I suspect that they are up to no good. If it had been up to me, some of those Death Eaters would have gotten longer sentences, including Lucius Malfoy.”

“I know. It seemed like there was something arbitrary about the sentencing. That it wasn’t necessarily the most dangerous people who got the longest sentences.”

“It was more a matter of who managed to play on the sympathies of the people judging them. The Malfoys and their counsel succeeded in convincing people that they were a close-knit family who cared much more about each other than about Voldemort’s cause. And Harry testified that Narcissa had saved his life, and so the world, by lying to Voldemort about the fact that he was still alive. That got them more forgiveness than anything.”

“That was Narcissa, not Lucius,” said Hermione, repeating what Harry had said to her at the time. “And she didn’t do it for Harry or because she’d really changed sides. Doesn’t it seem as if good-looking people got off easier than ugly ones? The Wizarding World doesn’t benefit from having no prison but Azkaban, because people won't send anyone they sympathize with there, and the ones who do go there don't get rehabilitated. This society has so far to go. We young ones have our work cut out for us.”

“It’s already gone a lot too far for our enemies. I knew a backlash would be coming. Boy, do they hate the income tax.” For a moment he smiled, but then looked serious again. “But I expected dirty tricks first. I never imagined their first strike would be something as awful as this.”

“But you don’t know it was them,” said Hermione, surprised at what struck her as a rather wild assumption. “There are still a lot of werewolves out there, and they were alienated for such a long time.”

“Hermione, I have spent my entire career monitoring the activities of these people, and I can only tell you that this is my gut feeling. It’s odd that your team didn’t find the werewolf. I wonder whether someone else could have gotten there first—someone who knew in advance, and maybe had some Dark Magic up their sleeve? Using a werewolf to hurt their enemies is just the kind of cowardly thing these people know they can get away with. Anyway, I want to tell you that I support you. I always have.”

“I know,” she said with feeling. “But Arthur, the capture team is very out of practice, and I was sending the harvesters out to do a job without adequate training, and I feel—” She stopped when she realized she was about to say “their blood is on my hands.” She wouldn’t go so far as to quote James Fenwick. “I’ll be making some changes I should have made as soon as I could have.”

“The most we can do is learn from our mistakes.” He noticed that she had not brought any food to the table, and how haggard she looked. “You should eat something, dear.”

She was still not sure she could, but she rose and made her way to the food counter. At least she could have some restorative tea, she thought. In fact it was just what she needed.

***

There was a fireplace in Harry’s office, and when she stumbled out of it that evening he was there to embrace her.

“Hermione, you look awful,” he said. Some soot and debris from the Floo Network had given the finishing touches to the effect on her appearance of nearly twenty-four hours of sleepless worrying.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ve had quite a day.”

“Can I get you a cup of tea?”

"Yes, please. Or maybe a cup of hot water with a tea bag dipped in it. I need to get some sleep tonight."

She sat down in a chair and Harry went to a cupboard behind his desk and pulled out a cup and saucer. He retrieved his wand from his desk drawer and tapped the cup, saying, " _Aguamenti!_ " and it filled with water. He tapped it again and it boiled. He took a tea bag from a box in the cupboard, dipped it once in the cup, and put it on the saucer. He carried the cup over to her and put it in her hands, and as he did so she caught a momentary expression of tenderness in his face. He then went and took the chair from behind his desk and brought it to the same side of the desk as hers, so the desk was not between them.

"You might want to know that Ron broke up with his latest girlfriend," he said.

Hermione slumped in her chair. She was nearing the end of her rope. "That's the last thing I want to know," she said.

"Then I'm sorry I told you. But now I've brought up the subject, I'll tell you why. He's never been serious about anyone but you. He keeps going out with other witches because he thinks you might change your mind if you see him with someone else."

"Oh, Merlin's pants! Isn't it enough that we were like that for three years at Hogwarts?" She knew that a mutual determination not to be jealous was one of the things that had made Harry's relationship with Ginny, to whom he was now married, more successful than her relationship with Ron. "Is that boy ever going to move on?"

"Well, he hasn't yet. He still loves you."

"I love him too, Harry, but I'm never going back to him, and the sooner he realizes that the better." She felt like changing the subject. "Did you see what was written about me in the _Prophet_?"

"Yes, by one ignorant git. That reminds me," he said, reaching for a newspaper on his desk and offering it to her. "This may cheer you up. The Lovegoods are behind you. In case you haven't noticed, these days there's often a grain of truth in their stories."

It was the latest issue of _The Quibbler_. In fact, she realized it must be a special edition. Luna Lovegood was now the apprentice editor and planned to take over when her father retired. The paper had shown a little improvement with her help, but when Hermione saw the headline she almost laughed.

**_NEW SHE-WEREWOLF JOINS HER SISTERS_ **

**_IN HIDDEN HIGHLAND PARADISE_**

> The Wizarding World is grieved by the tragic loss of the two young lunasturtia harvesters Timothy Smith and Sally Wolvercote at the recent full moon. Both have been presumed killed by a werewolf attack. Smith’s body shows evidence of a werewolf attack, but the remains of Wolvercote have not been found. _IS SALLY WOLVERCOTE REALLY DEAD?_
> 
> Most wizards believe that no witch has ever survived a werewolf attack. If they did, then where are all the female werewolves, we ask? But could it be that they have been safely hidden in a place formerly unknown to us, waiting for a more tolerant society to welcome them back?
> 
> In a remote location in the Northwest Scottish Highlands, we have found evidence of a lush refuge only accessible through time tunnels, and in this area the elusive female werewolves have at last been spotted. Here a piece of pre-historic Britain has been preserved, a haven where beasts and nature coexist peacefully, and some women attacked by werewolves over the centuries have fallen through time to live out their lives among its giant ferns and ancient conifers. Here they have been known to no one but the gentle ancient Wulver, who comes and goes and teaches them to fish. There can be little doubt that Wolvercote is now among them, since she cannot be found. _THE MYSTERY OF DISAPPEARED WITCHES SOLVED AT LAST!_
> 
> Female werewolves are gentle even in their wolf state, and were not safe with their male counterparts, or in a society that misunderstood them. Mysterious magic was needed for their preservation. But times are changing, and the Wizarding World's new policy of treating werewolves as the human beings they are will make their return possible at last. This tragic werewolf attack will probably be one of the last now that witches and wizards are at last making peace with the lycanthropes among us and making available the care they need. Relatives and friends of Sally Wolvercote should take comfort in the hope that their loved one may soon return to them, and until then is in a better place.

“Yeah, I bet there’s some truth in this story, like there was some truth in the story that Sirius was not a mass murderer but a pop singer," said Hermione. "I suspect that there’s more to the story on female werewolves than many wizards assume, but I don’t see much reason to think that the Lovegoods are onto the real story.”

"You can't be sure," said Harry, looking amused.

"Have you finished reading this?" She felt a little fascinated by the story in spite of herself. He nodded. "Would you mind if I take it with me?"

"Not at all," he said. "Do you still want to use the library? You look exhausted."

"I am. I was up all night last night." She realized it was crazy to think of doing research now. "I guess it'll have to wait until the weekend. I don't think I'll have time before that. I better be getting home."

"Why don't you come have supper with us? You can crash on the sofa. The kids are adorable. It'll take your mind off things." Harry and Ginny had adopted Teddy Lupin several years earlier, and now had a little girl of their own who was almost two.

"I bet they are. But I have to get home and feed the cats."

"Can't Crookshanks feed them?"

"He can feed himself, though I don't trust him as to what, much less to feed Isis. They seem to be in a rivalry phase. I hope it'll pass."

"I hope it doesn't come to that with Teddy and Lily," said Harry. "Teddy is such a sweet kid, it's hard to imagine him being jealous of anyone, but we have to be very aware, because he's adopted and Lily isn't. I mean, we have to be sure they know that they're equal and that we love them both the same."

"You probably have a deeper understanding of that than most parents, Harry," said Hermione, remembering Harry's childhood. Looking at him, she did forget about her own troubles for a minute, feeling how glad she was that he finally had a happy family life.

"I guess that's part of the reason I wanted to adopt Teddy. I wanted to give him what I didn't have. I mean, Andromeda's nice, but she's been kind of batty ever since the war."

"I think she suffered enough to make anyone batty, losing her husband and her only child, and her relatives being on the other side. Well, I'm happy for you and for your kids. I always thought you and Ginny would be great parents. I'd best be going now." She stood up.

“Take care, Hermione,” said Harry. “Get some sleep. And remember we're here if you need us.”

"Thanks, Harry. I will." She reached for her Floo Powder and walked back to the fireplace.

***

A man and a woman were exiting a movie theatre in the basement of a mall. The woman looked cross.

“I guess I should have kept quiet until the end,” said the man. “I asked him what he thought, and he just said one word."

“I know. I heard it,” said the woman, and then after a moment, “this is why you can’t go anywhere with Steve.”

“Are you suggesting we write him off?”

“I can’t write off my brother. But I won’t ask him to do things with us if he’s going to be like this.”

“Where is he?”

“Who the hell knows?”

“I’m right here,” said another man who had just popped out of a nearby bookstore.

“Well, what were you expecting from one of _our_ werewolf movies?” said his sister. “Did you think people were going to discover that lycanthropy is a condition they can live with?”

“How about something resembling a plot? How about something besides blood, guts, and pussy? Sorry,” he added when his sister gave him what he imagined was a dirty look at the last word.

“There was a plot, but it wasn’t very interesting,” said the other man. “I suppose they don’t have movies in your world, Steve? Do they have interactive things, like that thing they had on the Starship Enterprise?”

“He wouldn’t know, he does nothing but work in his own world. He has no social life.”

The two men looked at her in surprise, then at each other. “Oh, I forgot,” said the friend, “it’s all a secret. Becky—“

“Don’t call me Becky, or I’ll call you Eddie baby.“

“I didn’t call you Becky baby. And you can call me Eddie, that’s what my family calls me.”

“Rebecca could never stand being called Becky. We call her Reb.”

“We’re going back to my place,” said Rebecca. “Would you like to hang with us, Steve? We’ve got some—“

“Werewolf DVDs,” interjected her friend. Rebecca laughed.

“I’m going back to Mum and Dad’s. I promised Ma I’d help her this afternoon.”

“Always the good-doer.”

The brother hesitated for a moment, then addressed the other man with quiet intensity. “Don’t listen to anything she says about me. ” He turned and walked away without looking to see what reaction this might have provoked.

Healer Steve Gillyfeld of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies greatly enjoyed his visits to his Muggle family in London, in spite of the fact that he still found his sister difficult to get along with. She had always been jealous of him, first for displacing her as the center of their mother’s attention, secondly for being a boy, and worst of all for being a wizard, and if she wasn’t over it by now, he wondered whether she ever would be. It ought to be enough, he always thought, that ever since he had been sent away to Hogwarts she had had their parents to herself for most of the time, but whenever he appeared they made so much of him that she still found it necessary to try to cut him down to size. Still, she had a sense of humor and not infrequent flashes of kindness and generosity that made up for a lot. She had been dating this Ed guy for a few months now, and he wondered how long it would last. Not long, if he was any judge.

His spirits rose as he boarded the bus for his childhood home, both elated as he always was to be seeing it again, and relieved for the moment to be out of his sister’s company. After he reached his stop a short walk brought him to the door of Jonathan and Hannah Gillenfeld. As he approached the house he saw an owl crash into the living room window and fall to the ground. He hurried over in alarm and picked it up, then sat down with it on the front doorstep and gently untied a letter from its claws. His stomach sank when he saw that it was from the Ministry of Magic. He hastily shoved the parchment in his coat pocket, clumsily turned his own key in the front door lock, and stumbled into the house.

His mother rushed forward to embrace him, then stopped in alarm when she saw what looked like a dead owl in his hands.

“Oh—is it dead?”

“No, just unconscious. I’m going to take it to my room, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah, a Healer’s work is never done,” said his father, who had come to his mother’s side. “And you thought you were on holiday.” He looked faintly amused.

“You’re such a popular guy,” said his mother, “you only just got here and already there’s an owl for you.”

“Popular guy,” snorted Gillyfeld. “Maybe it’s just as well you don’t know the truth.” But his voice trailed off as he headed for what they still called his room, and his mother didn’t hear him.

He put the owl on the bed and looked at it with consternation. What to do? A Muggle animal shelter might confiscate it. It would take a long time to get it to St. Mungo’s, which did not welcome animals anyway. It would get back to its sender fastest if he revived it with a spell. He felt a surge of familiar anger at the Ministry. Did they send him a disoriented owl just to tempt him to break their stupid statute again? He retrieved his wand from his other coat pocket, pointed it at the owl, and spoke the counter-stunning spell. The owl blinked a few times, moved its wings, and hopped to a standing position. He made some movements to test its responses, and concluded it wasn’t seriously hurt.

He picked up the parchment. He expected he was in for a reprimand, at the least, for using magic in front of Muggles, something he had done many times in his parents’ house. Better get it over with, he thought grimly, unsealing the letter with some trepidation. But the contents were a complete surprise.

It was addressed on the inside to Healer-in-Charge Gillyfeld of the Plant and Potions Poisoning Department of the hospital, and he realized that someone at the hospital must have forwarded it to him. Under the letterhead of the Ministry’s Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures he read the following:

_Dear Healer Gillyfeld,_

_I want to consult you about an issue that I know concerns us both greatly. You probably have heard of the tragic death and disappearance last night of the two members of the lunasturtia-gathering party in Beerden Forest. Progress on the assimilation of werewolves is not going as speedily as I had hoped, and the enemies of reform are already manipulating this incident as proof that we are wrong to proceed with it at all._

_I wish I had a better understanding of why more werewolves are still not seeking the help our department makes available to them. If they continue to use this forest the manufacture of the Wolfsbane Potion will be dangerous and all our recent progress in this area may be reversed. I feel that, considering the work you have already done, you are probably the wizard with the most understanding of the situation of werewolves, besides the werewolves themselves, who may have obstacles to being honest with me about what the problem is. If you can possibly spare the time, I would very much like to meet with you in person to discuss this matter, in the hope that two heads may be better than one. I am greatly indebted to you for your past support, and have the greatest respect for your opinion._

_Cordially,_

_Hermione Granger_

_Beings Division_   
  


Gillyfeld felt as if a blow had been struck straight to his heart. Deep down he had feared this was coming sooner or later. Not that Granger would want to talk to him, but that someone would be attacked by werewolves while gathering lunasturtia, and that the incident would be powerful fodder for the enemies of werewolf assimilation. He sank to the bed with the letter in his hand, just missing sitting on the owl.

He sat up. This was no time to be immobilized by discouragement. He had better respond as quickly as possible. He went to the desk and pulled out a piece of Muggle paper, and scribbled on it with an old quill:

_  
Dear Ms. Granger,_

_I am at my parents’ house but will return to my own home tonight. I would like to meet with you as soon as possible. I am available all day tomorrow, as I had planned to take the day off. I can visit you at your office at any time that is convenient for you._

_Yours truly,_

_Steve Gillyfeld_

  
He wrote his home address under his name. “Chuck, chuck,” he said to the owl, scratching the back of its head. He folded his paper and tied it to the bird’s feet with the same string it had come with, took it to the window, and let it out.

He walked out of his room and to the kitchen, where his mother was cooking supper.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to go home tonight,” he said. “An emergency’s come up.”

“Oh, Steve,” said his mother, sounding bitterly disappointed.

“Can you stay for supper?” said his father, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

“For supper, yes, of course,” said Gillyfeld a little distractedly.

***

When he had boarded the tube and was more or less alone with his thoughts, he realized that, although he had seldom been shy of anyone in his adult life, the thought of meeting Hermione Granger made him nervous. He could hardly extend to her the general lack of respect that he had always felt for the Ministry, even the post-war Ministry. He admired her—who could do otherwise? They had some major things in common, both being Muggle-born, both being idealistic people who saw social injustice as unnecessary and possible to fix, and both being hard workers who had achieved an unusual amount of advancement in their careers at a relatively early age, though that was true even more of Granger than of himself. It was common knowledge that she had always been at the top of her class at Hogwarts and had accounted for more than a third of the brains of the trio of teenagers who had done more than anyone else to defeat Voldemort, by finding and destroying his Horcruxes, among other things.

But many things in the story of those youngsters’ adventures that year had become common knowledge, and one thing Gillyfeld knew about Granger had always troubled him deeply. At the age of seventeen she had had the temerity to modify her parents’ memories to the degree of giving them a new identity and packing them off to Australia, with the complete assurance, he supposed, that they could not handle the truth and that she knew better than they did what was best for them. To Gillyfeld this exemplified an attitude of wizards toward Muggles that he had always found repugnant. He had never stopped feeling closer to his family of origin than to anyone else, and had always felt that the Wizarding World had an unfortunate way of separating Muggle-born witches and wizards from their families, and furthermore that the Wizarding Statute of Secrecy and policy of memory modification was very condescending to Muggles. There were plenty of things in his parents’ holy book he did not accept — for that matter, they didn’t believe it all themselves, especially the ban on witchcraft and wizardry. But was there nothing in “Honor thy father and thy mother”?

And could Granger, with all her supposed smarts, really not figure out that werewolves didn’t like showing up at the Creatures Department of the Ministry for social services because it gave away to others that they were werewolves? That they would probably prefer to get a prescription for the potion privately from a Healer, and quietly take it to an apothecary like anyone else would take any other prescription? That the very fact that they were still being handled by the Creatures Department was an indication that they were still not regarded as fully human?

Well if she couldn’t, he guessed he would just have to explain it to her. He supposed that Hermione Granger was capable of handling the truth.

The train screeched to a halt, the doors opened, and his attention was caught by the appearance of a young woman with an attractive build and spiked bright purple hair. Another thought that seldom troubled him suddenly came to his mind. What would he wear? Outside of work, where he wore his St. Mungo’s uniform, he always wore Muggle clothes, which he supposed would be frowned on at the Ministry. He had hardly worn his wizard robes since his graduation from Hogwarts. It was part of his personal creed to do things that other people frowned on, especially if he disagreed with their rules, but he did not want to show any disrespect to Granger. But if he wore the robes he would feel as if he were wearing a costume, acting a part… wouldn’t he be showing her as much respect by being as genuine as possible? This was no time to be distracted by things that didn’t really matter all that much…

Preoccupied with such thoughts, he almost missed his stop, but caught himself just in time, and headed for the entrance to Diagon Alley, where he would get hold of the day’s paper on his way home.


	4. The New Werewolf

_Monday, October 17-Tuesday, October 18, 2005 – Full Moon_

The previous evening, when darkness had fallen on the mostly lonely mountains of the Northwest Highlands, a group of women were sitting in a circle in a cave in a mountainside there that had never been seen either by wizards or by Muggles. Their faces were illuminated by a pure, incandescent white light that emanated from a nebulous ball in their center, which also illuminated the colorful geometric designs painted on the dome-like ceiling of the cave. These were the Sorceresses, powerful witches who had withdrawn from the Wizarding World over the preceding centuries because they had found it to be patriarchal and because they disagreed with policies there that they had been unable to successfully challenge. They had finished their evening meal and were settling into their favorite activity. The Sorceresses were arguing as usual.

"Mara, no human being has ever been able to prove or disprove the existence of the Goddess,” said a tall woman with long, silver-white hair whose clothing consisted of a deep green dyed cotton-like cloth that was simply wrapped around her.

“Then why do you keep assuming she isn’t real? Those of us who believe have reason enough,” said a dark-haired woman who was similarly clad in black.

"I don't assume that. I was responding to your talk about the Greek gods and goddesses literally doing things, when to the best of our knowledge these actions were metaphors for the things they represented acting on people," continued Clara. "Like if Aphrodite acted on a man, that was another way of saying he was smitten with sexual desire. Or if she protected people who were good-looking, a way of saying that beautiful people sometimes get away with more than other people."

“I’m not sure metaphors aren’t real,” said a woman with long, soft brown hair whose cloth wrap was deep blue, and Clara looked at her in surprise.

"Isn't that a contradiction?" she said.

"I don’t think so,” said Sara. "Take dementors and Patroni. We know they're real, we can see them, but Muggles can't. But Muggles get depressed, and they can combat depression by remembering the things that really give them joy. The stronger their store of happy thoughts and memories, the better equipped they are to combat depression. What's the difference between that and making a Patronus? But to a Muggle making a Patronus would be a metaphor."

"That's thanks to the artificial state of ignorance imposed on them by the Ministry of Magic," said Clara. "We've all seen dementors and Patroni, but never goddesses. It's impossible to tell, from the traditions of the witches, that anyone actually saw or interacted with a corporeal goddess."

"You think only corporeal things are real?" said Mara. "Sounds like men have been messing with your mind."

"No, I only rely on my own mind. I look for evidence—“ 

Suddenly there was a loud squawking and frantic beating of wings at the mouth of the cave. Sara ran to the entrance and put out her hand, and the haze of fluttering feathers resolved into a small brown owl perched on it. The owl tapped several times on her nose. Sara turned to the other Sorceresses.

“A werewolf is attacking a woman in Beerden Forest! I’m on it!”

She spun herself around and the owl flew away. She kept spinning faster until it was impossible to see her, and the blur dissolved into a spinning grey mist which thickened into a funnel-shaped cloud that soon left the ground and became completely airborne. The cloud rose to a high altitude, then flattened and sped off toward the southeast.

***

When Sally Wolvercote opened her eyes she saw a benevolent face looking into hers, backlit with sunlight from some opening to the outdoors and framed with short brown hair. She looked down from the face and saw it belonged to a woman who was wrapped in a brilliant vermilion garment, and with her newly regained consciousness she had the confused impression that this color and the two round mounds of flesh it was covering were the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. She blinked.

"How are you feeling?" said the beautiful one kindly.

Wolvercote tried to sit up and suddenly felt a stabbing pain from her shoulder to near the middle of her upper chest.

"Easy does it. That's a pretty nasty wound you got." The woman plumped up a large pillow and dropped it behind her head, and Wolvercote leaned back again and found she was supported by two pillows. "Here, drink some of this. We'll have you feeling better in no time." The woman handed her a ceramic mug with no handles. Wolvercote thought there was an aroma she vaguely recognized.

"Who are you?" she said. "Where am I?"

"You're in the mountain retreat of the Sorceresses, the home of the female werewolves. We rescued you from a werewolf attack."

Wolvercote closed her eyes as her memory came flooding back. She had been harvesting lunasturtia in Beerden Forest when she had heard a commotion and the distant cry of her coworker Tim...she had run to help him without thinking, but when she had gotten within sight of him she had seen it was a werewolf, and the werewolf had dropped his lifeless body and come after her...there had been a strange commotion in the leaf canopy...she had aimed a stunning spell at the werewolf and run...the air had become mistier as she heard him gaining on her...she had felt a sharp pain and thought it was all over, but then everything had gone white and the werewolf had let go...she had felt smothered, and she had thought she heard a frightened howl, the last thing she remembered. She opened her eyes again and realized she was in a cave. Was this a delirious dream? Had she died?

"Am I dead?" she said.

"No, not in the least. You're a werewolf, but don't worry, it's jolly fun being a werewolf up here. I'm one too. I was rescued like you were years ago. My name's Dara. What's yours?"

"Sally Wolvercote. You mean there are female werewolves who survive? Who have been living someplace the rest of us didn't know about?"

"Yes. The--"

"Wow! So Hermione guessed right that the female werewolves existed! Wait ‘til she hears about this!” Hermione had confided in her about her questioning of the conventional wisdom on female werewolves.

Dara looked troubled. "Drink some of the potion," she urged, as if she wanted to change the subject.

Wolvercote took a sip from the mug. The potion had a slightly sweet taste, and as she swallowed it she felt warmth and the relief of pain suffuse throughout her body, especially at her wound, which seemed to respond immediately. "Oh," she said in surprise.

Dara looked pleased. "This doesn't just relieve your pain, it will heal you," she said.

Wolvercote took a few more sips and realized what the familiar fragrance was, and recognized it in the taste of the potion as well, though the potion tasted nothing like Wolfsbane Potion. "This has lunasturtia in it!" she said.

"Lunasturtia? Is that what you call wolfsbalm?" said Dara.

"Wolfsbalm! What a cool name for it! Say, what is this place? The Sorceresses, did you say? Where the bloody hell are we?"

"We are in the magical mountain hideout of a group of wonderful witches who left the Wizarding World over the years because they did not agree with the rule of men. They keep alive traditions from the time before men dominated women or other animals, or imposed intolerant religion on them. They offered shelter to the female werewolves, because there was no safe place for us either in the world of wizards or of Muggles. Not once the male werewolves started hunting humans and reproducing through the bite."

"Do female werewolves not hunt humans?" said Wolvercote.

"No, no," said Dara reassuringly. "The condition doesn't affect us the same way. We transform into wolves, but without the dementia. Also, we may transform at any time, not only at the full moon."

"So we don't need the Wolfsbane Potion? This is just a healing potion you're giving me? Hey, how did you get lunasturtia -- wolfsbalm up here? We can't get it to grow anywhere except in the two forests werewolves used to go."

"We planted it there. The Sorceresses breed plants, especially medicinal ones, and we developed that one to help the werewolves. It relieves the pain of our transformations, and we wanted to share it with our werewolf brothers, though we couldn't really do anything else to help them. Our plants are all bred not to grow anywhere but where we plant them, because we don't want them to spread from our domain and give us away or invade another ecosystem."

"You could help us out by planting some more where it's safer to harvest. Will I meet the Sorceresses? Can I talk to them?"

"Of course. They can't wait to meet you. We always have a meeting after the evening meal. By the way, I'm a Sorceress myself, and you may become one too, if you care to study our magic. It takes a long time though."

"Well, I won't have time for that," said Wolvercote. "I need to be getting back as soon as I can."

"Would you like to see our garden?" said Dara. The troubled look had crossed her face again.

"I'd love to."

"Drink up your potion, but not too fast. We have lots of beautiful things to show you." She beamed, and Wolvercote felt she was already being shown something beautiful in the face looking into hers. "I'll come back when you've had a bit more rest."

Dara walked out the mouth of the cave and Wolvercote sank back on the pillows. She noticed that she was not wearing her own clothes, but some simple and comfortable garment of a natural-looking off-white color, one that probably had not been dyed yet. She slowly sipped away the potion, and when she was finished, placed the mug on the ground by her mattress. She leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes, drinking in the lingering fragrance. Her fatigue and the relaxing effect of the potion seemed to be doing battle with her curiosity and excitement, and the latter made her unable to fall asleep, but she did rest. She opened her eyes when she sensed Dara at the cave entry again.

"Do you feel like getting up now?"

"Yes!" Wolvercote sat up, and this time there was no pain.

"Easy does it," said Dara, giving her a hand as she stood up, and pointing out a pair of what looked like deer-skin moccasins on the cave floor near the bed. Wolvercote stepped into the moccasins, surprised that they fit her large feet, and followed Dara as she led her out of the mouth of the cave and down a short path.

At first she had difficulty seeing in the daylight to which she had already become unaccustomed. Her first sensation was the smell of pine trees, but she soon found herself facing an open area with an abundance of different shapes, colors, and fragrances, and she realized this must be the garden. A woman dressed in green with long hair that seemed something between platinum-blond and white was working in it. She was using a large wooden spoon to spread some silvery substance among the plant beds, but she turned to them as they approached.

"The new werewolf has risen," said Dara, "and calls herself Sally Wolvercote."

"Welcome, Sally," said the gardener, putting down the spoon and opening her arms to embrace her. "I'm Clara."

"Clara is one of our most powerful and wisest witches," said Dara.

"Are you the one who rescued me?" said Wolvercote. She noticed that Clara looked very tired.

"No, that was Sara," said Clara.

"Were you up all night gathering that stuff?" said Dara. "Mooncalf dung," she explained to Wolvercote.

"Yes," said Clara. "There's nothing like it for our plants, and soon the weather will be harsher, and it will be harder to collect."

Wolvercote's eye was suddenly caught by some flowers that seemed to be exactly the same color as Dara's garment. Then she noticed some near those that were a beautiful indigo color. With her vision sharp again, she was noticing that the garden seemed to have many flowers in it of very striking colors.

"Those flowers are the same color as your robe," she said to Dara, pointing them out.

"I used them to make the dye. We make fabric from our own plants, and we make the dyes as well. You may find your own favorite color."

"This is so cool!" said Wolvercote. She looked up and around to see the extent of the place, and noticed that it was apparently bounded by some rows of tall plants with spikes of flowers in colors ranging from red to purple, lavender and white, and that behind those were some even taller ferns, as tall as trees, separating the garden from the pine forest.

"Those are the lupins," said Dara, following her gaze to the flower spikes. "We like to eat them in our wolf state. You will too."

"But those ferns!" said Wolvercote in amazement. "I've never seen anything like that in Scotland! Do you get much rain here? Where do you get your water?"

Dara glanced at Clara, and then back at Wolvercote.

"This is Sorceress magic," said Clara. "We have learned to transform ourselves into storm clouds. We can create our own microclimate."

Wolvercote stared at her in still greater amazement.

"It's true," said Dara. "It's our most advanced magic. I finally learned it, though it took me decades."

Now Wolvercote stared at Dara, stunned again. She had imagined Dara to be a young woman like herself, but these words suggested that she must be much older than she looked. Then she noticed that Clara was looking at her as if reading her thoughts.

"We also cultivate medicinal plants, which have helped with our health and longevity," she said.

"Yes, Dara told me that you created lunasturtia -- what you call wolfsbalm," said Wolvercote.

"Really we do not create living things, only help them evolve," said Clara. "We are not goddesses."

Wolvercote did not feel up to a philosophical discussion. "Would you like to show me some of your other magical plants?" she asked Dara.

"Yes, just follow me. We'll see you this evening, Clara," she said.

"Maybe you should show Sally the lake," suggested Clara.

"That was part of my plan," said Dara.

"Nice meeting you, Clara," said Wolvercote before she turned to follow Dara, who was leading her deeper into the garden. She was struck by the fragrances as well as the beautiful colors. It seemed to her that, many as they were, she could distinguish individual smells, and that her sense of smell was sharper than usual. Dara began pointing out various plants to her and explaining their uses.

"This is so cool!" she said again. And then, after a little while, shared the thought: "Maybe it's something about the air up here, but I seem to be able to distinguish smells more clearly."

"You're a wolf woman now," said Dara, winking, and Wolvercote felt a thrill. Was it possible that her lycanthropy was already giving her some new power? From what Dara had said, it sounded as if for them it was not anything bad, and being a wolf might indeed be great fun. As she continued to follow Dara, she saw that they were nearing one of the borders of the garden. Dara turned to her.

"Keep following me. You have to see Looking Glass Lake."

They had reached a row of the giant ferns, which Dara parted with her hands and stepped through, and then held apart for Wolvercote, who soon found herself on a trail in the pine forest. She followed Dara along the trail, her eyes adjusting to the relative darkness again. There was something deeper and quieter about this forest than other highland forests she had been in. She followed the trail through many twists and turns, always keeping Dara in her sight, and avoiding tripping on the tree roots that frequently crossed their path. She could tell they were descending in elevation. Eventually light appeared ahead of them to the right, and the path turned in that direction and down a steeper slope, and they emerged on a bed of gravel that gradually turned to sand as it reached the edge of a large lake.

Looking Glass Lake was dark and seemed to Wolvercote to be reflecting nothing. The rest of its shore was surrounded by steeply sloping, heavily vegetated land that showed no sign of any human presence. Her eye was caught by autumn foliage remaining on some trees on the far side. She walked closer to the shore, staring into the dark water in front of her, wondering at its opacity, for she could see nothing in it at all. Was the name ironic? Suddenly she noticed an animal swimming toward the shore, and soon a squat, tubby grey wolf with black-tipped nose and ears emerged onto the sand and vigorously shook its round body. Drops of water flew from its fur, some of them landing on Wolvercote.

“Really Bonita, have you no manners?” said Dara. “Is this how you greet our new sister?”

Wolvercote watched in amazement as the wolf transformed into a roly-poly dark-haired young woman. “So sorry!” said the new arrival, who stepped forward, naked and still damp, to embrace her. “I’m Bonita. As you can see, I’m your sister werewolf. It’s getting too cold to swim here without a fur coat.”

Wolvercote rather liked this familiarity, which suggested that the women here already regarded her as family. “I’m Sally,” she said.

“Welcome, Sally,” said Bonita, who then made for a cloth bundle in the gravel that turned out to be a robe of some thick absorbent material, and put it on.

“Did you transform back on purpose?” said Wolvercote. It was the suspicion of this that amazed her most.

“I believe I did,” said Bonita, looking at Dara. “I’m getting better at it.”

“We do learn to transform at will, but it takes years of practice,” said Dara. “Don’t expect that to happen soon, or be frustrated when it doesn’t.”

“I’m going back to help with dinner,” said Bonita. “I’ll see you at the hearth, Sally.”

Wolvercote realized she was getting hungry and liked the sound of the hearth. Then she glanced down at her arm and had a shock. Longer hair was starting to sprout on it, and her fingernails were becoming longer and sharper. She noticed hair growing longer elsewhere on her body, and had the terrifying realization that she must already be transforming into a wolf. She remembered what Dara had said about female werewolves not transforming only at the full moon, but what was now happening seemed unthinkable. Every other werewolf she knew of had a month to recover from his injuries before his first transformation. Would it tear open her wound? What agony was she about to suffer?

Even as she formed these thoughts, she could feel the wolfsbalm potion in her system dulling what she knew would have been pain, and heard Dara’s reassuring voice say: “You’ll be fine.” She felt her stretching skin pull at her wound, but it had already gone far in healing, and the potion-infused scar held as her skin seemed to expand around it. She soon dropped onto the front legs that had been her arms, and as her new snout came close to the ground, noticed a myriad of smells that she could not have detected before. She felt her bushy tail add to a great new sense of balance, and had an urge to start wandering over terrain that she knew she could access as a wolf and not in human form. She could swim, if she wished, to a wild part of the lake shore…

As she turned to the lake again, she was startled to see that instead of impenetrable darkness, the surface now showed images. She stood at its edge, the water lapping at her paws, and stared. A large, majestic-looking wolf with thick cream-colored fur overlaid with grey was staring back at her with intelligent black eyes. _Could it be her own reflection?_ She circled her nose in the air, and felt a thrill as the creature in the lake did the same. Wolvercote had never considered herself much to look at as a woman, but as a wolf she was quite beautiful! This thought combined with her relief at the success of her transformation, as well as her awareness of her new physical abilities, gave her a rush of euphoria. She raised her snout and howled in appreciation. To her surprise, another howl answered hers.

She turned and saw another wolf standing where Dara had been, and realized the other witch must have transformed, probably to keep her company. Dara pounced and knocked her over, and then tickled her underside with her snout, and she realized this was wolf play. She righted herself and pounced back, and they rolled on the ground, Wolvercote feeling she had been happily set free from the inhibition her human counterpart would have felt in such behavior. They splashed in the water and roughhoused on the shore, and the time flew as she experienced a greater sense of being alive in the moment than she could ever have remembered, if memory had not, for the time being, dropped away. But the time came when her fur started to disappear, her nails to retreat, her awkwardness on uneven limbs to cause her to stand erect, and soon she was a breathless and rather bewildered woman again.

She looked at the other wolf and saw it transform back into Dara, whose naked body she caught herself admiring for a moment before looking away, embarrassed. She thought of what had just happened, and of the feelings she had had about this woman since laying eyes on her, and had to realize something about herself that deep down she had long suspected but not been sure about. The reason, no doubt, she had never felt much for the men she had dated, though the human need for intimacy had driven her to try. Had she felt this way about other women, and suppressed it? There had never been one like this.

“Don’t catch cold,” said Dara, handing her robe to her. She had already put on her own. “We’ll be a bit late for dinner, but no worries. They will leave enough for us. We’ll join the Sorceresses after we eat.”

Dara led Wolvercote back on the path through the forest to the garden and through the garden to the open area in front of it and, bypassing the entrance to the cave where the newcomer had rested earlier, they followed another path around the mountain to another clearing which Wolvercote could see was the hearth. There were two open fire pits, each with a ceramic cauldron on it, from which savory smells emanated. A couple of carved wooden bowls had been left nearby, and Dara handed the other woman hers, and Wolvercote noticed carved wooden ladles in the cauldrons as well, and it occured to her that woodworking must be one of their crafts. She then looked up and noticed that there was carved wooden latticework at the edge of the clearing and supposed that beyond it the mountain probably dropped off steeply.

"Meat or vegetarian?" said Dara.

"Meat, please," said Wolvercote reflexively as an image of herself as a wolf flashed across her mind's eye. Dara smiled as if she understood, and ladled each of them a helping of red deer stew, which Wolvercote ate with gusto.

When they were finished eating, Dara indicated a fissure in a nearby rock face from which a faint white light seemed to emanate, and Wolvercote realized it must be the entrance to another cave. "It's time for you to meet the Sorceresses," said Dara, and Wolvercote followed her with butterflies in her stomach, though she tried to remember how friendly Clara had been.

They entered a cave that had a high round ceiling like the inside of a dome, painted with geometrical designs. The first thing Wolvercote noticed was a pure white flame leaping up from a nebulous ball of similar white light in the middle of the floor.

"Merlin's wand!" she said. "That looks like the flame on the Lupin grave!"

"It is," she thought she heard Dara say, but she was distracted from responding to this surprising statement by the gazes of the witches who were sitting in a circle around it, all wrapped in colorful cloths. For an instant she thought they were underdressed for the time of year, but then noticed it was pleasantly warm in the cave, with heat emanating from the flame ball. She met the gaze of Clara, who was sitting directly across from her.

"Welcome, Sally," said the white-haired, green-clad witch for the second time that day.

"Welcome sister," said a witch in black with long black hair and rather imposing features, "to your life as a true witch. I am Mara."

Wolvercote wondered whether to protest that she had always been a true witch, when another voice said, "I am Sara," and she turned to see a witch with soft brown hair dressed in blue, sitting next to Clara.

"You're the one who rescued me!" said Wolvercote, stepping around the flame to embrace her, which she now had the impression was the custom here. Sara looked surprised but pleased. Wolvercote returned to her place and sat down next to Dara, who was already seated. She noticed Bonita in the circle, wearing a plum-colored robe, and another witch who looked South Asian whose robe was a deep magenta with gold embroidery at the edges, and looked something like a sari.

"I am Tara," said the magenta-clad witch.

"I am Talachawinga," said an elderly voice, and Wolvercote was startled to see a very ancient woman standing between Clara and Mara where no one had been a minute earlier. Clara retrieved a wooden bench for her from farther back in the cave, and she sat down. Wolvercote stared with fascination at her robe, which was not a wrap like the others but a heavily embroidered dress. Across the front was embroidered a sea serpent, shimmering in various shades of green, though with a head that more resembled that of a dragon. When she moved and light caught the fabric from another angle, the beast appeared to lose its scales for smooth, grey-green skin, and its serpent's tail spread slightly into tentacles.

"Meet the Loch Ness monster," said Bonita, and Wolvercote smiled, supposing that she was joking.

"I think that creature looks more magnificent than I imagine a kelpie ever does," she said to Talachawinga.

"That creature is I in my Animagus form," said the elderly witch. "The Muggles have never recorded a clear enough image either of the original Loch Ness Monster or of me to make a proper comparison, and those who believe in it have never doubted I am the same one."

"You mean--you also appear in Loch Ness as the monster?" said Wolvercote in surprise. "Isn't the kelpie jealous of his turf?"

"The kelpie has been dead for centuries," said Tara. "Did you ever hear of a kelpie living a thousand years?"

"Yes, the Loch Ness Monster," said Wolvercote, and some of the other witches laughed.

"I used to play with that kelpie when I first came to live in the highlands, and I was grieved by his death," said Talachawinga. "I realized that his permanent disappearance would also leave the local Muggles bereft, and so I took his place."

Wolvercote felt the ice had been sufficiently broken for her to ask the question most burning in her. She could not wait for them to volunteer the answer.

"Please tell me, my powerful friends, how on earth did you rescue me from a werewolf attack? How could you have known or gotten there in time? How have you rescued all the female werewolves, if that is what you have done, for centuries? How have you kept this a secret from the Wizarding World?"

"The Wizarding World does not want to believe in female power," said Mara.

"Sally, the answer to your first question is that our owls and bats watch and listen in the forests on the night of the full moon, and alert us if a woman is in danger from a werewolf," said Clara. "We all know how to transform into clouds, and can travel very fast in that form, and stifle the senses of the attacking werewolf. We know how to make branches into brooms, and carry our new friends home.

"But you have a bigger underlying question why, and how did our protection of the female werewolves come to pass? We are witches who keep alive wisdom and magic that wizards have overlooked and denied. Wizards and Muggles alike have fallen out of wise ways with their arrogant objectification of other creatures. Humans and wolves were not always enemies, but collaborators in the great scheme of things, and werewolves were once honored as magical beings and did not kill humans, nor did humans kill them. But with the effort of men to eradicate wolves, the male werewolves developed a taste for human flesh, and lost their interest in their female counterparts, for they came to reproduce through the bite.

"The female werewolves were different. They remained social and sought protection for their offspring, and when the males abandoned them, sought refuge among the wolves. They never lost their human consciousness in their wolf state, the way the males eventually did, and they do not have the compulsion to attack humans. But eventually they were not welcome among the wolves either, because they were often in human form, and humans had become the enemy of wolves. They were not safe among the wizards either, where werewolves had become feared and hated, and so we brought them to live with us."

"There was no place left in human society for the male werewolves either," said Sara, "but we could not help them, because they are too dangerous."

"Well, that's all over now," said Wolvercote. "Werewolves can live safely in the Wizarding World now. There's a potion that makes their transformations harmless, and now a law ending discrimination against them. I don't imagine any more werewolves will be joining you. Some who are here might even want to come back."

"No one who's tasted our life here wants to go back," said Dara.

Before Wolvercote thought of an answer, she was addressed by Talachawinga, who had been looking at her sharply.

"I have a question for _you_ , my young friend," she said. "What were you and your friend doing in Beerden Forest on the night of the full moon? Did you suppose danger to be romantic? Is it ever the way of the young to set so little value on their own lives?"

"He was my co-worker, not my friend, and we were harvesting lunasturtia -- what you call wolfsbalm. It's an essential ingredient in the Wolfsbane Potion."

At this Sara and Clara turned to each other and touched both palms together in a joint expression of triumph.

"They developed wolfsbalm," explained Dara, "though not without plenty of help from us werewolves. They're happy to know it was even more useful than they imagined."

"Happy," said Clara in a tone that suggested this word was too banal for the occasion. "We were able to help the brother werewolves and end the curse after all, when we had given up hope of that!"

"They also got -- or I should say we got -- a lot of help from my boss, Hermione Granger," said Wolvercote. "She works at the Ministry of Magic and led the effort to pass the measure ending discrimination against werewolves. She's the head of the Beings Division in the Creatures Department now, and you can be sure there's going to be a change in the way wizards treat other creatures. Some of the change you felt unable to make is happening now."

"I believe it, Sally," said Clara. "I felt back when she was a schoolgirl that Hermione might be the Wizarding World's best hope. I'm not surprised she chose a career at the Ministry, or that she's kept her principles."

Wolvercote felt bewildered. "You knew Hermione when she was a schoolgirl?" she said in a small voice, wondering how this could be possible, but also thinking of the flame on the Lupin grave, and how Dara seemed to know of it.

"We know more about the Wizarding World than they know about us, Sally," said Clara. "We did not meet Hermione and her friends, but we observed them during the recent war. We have magic that enables us to spy on a location down there, if we know exactly where to look, and we located the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, because we were interested in the progress of the war."

"Then you must have known about our werewolf hero, Remus Lupin," said Wolvercote.

"To be sure," said Dara, "and we were equally proud of the witch Nymphadora Tonks, who boldly chose to share her life with him, and her death. I planted wolfsbalm on their grave, and lit the magical flame that burns there still."

This reminded Wolvercote of her earlier idea. "You know, you could help us out by planting some wolfsbalm in a place that isn't a werewolf haunt. As you can see, the harvest still isn't safe."

"We're not sure it will grow in a place that isn't a werewolf haunt," said Dara.

"You see, we always fertilized it with our own poo in our wolf state," said Bonita, looking amused, "and we believed that was part of the necessary magic."

"We can't be sure, though," said Clara, "because we never tried to raise it without that, since there didn't seem to be any need for it, and in this case we were eager for results. Sally, do you know of any place down there that was ever a werewolf haunt, where werewolves no longer go?"

"There's the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts," said Wolvercote. "There is a legend that werewolves were seen there long ago, although I doubt the truth of it. They haven't been seen there in my lifetime."

"I say we plant some wolfsbalm in the Forbidden Forest," said Dara. "The worst that can happen is nothing."

"Thank you so much!" said Wolvercote. "This is all too wonderful for words. I can't wait to see Hermione's face when she hears the whole story." At these words she was surprised to see alarm appear in the faces of the other women.

"Sally, our existence is a secret from the Wizarding World," said Clara.

"Don't you want to stay here with us?" said Sara.

"Of course not!" said Wolvercote incredulously. "With all due respect, I need to get back to my family and friends as soon as I can. Everybody must think I'm dead! My parents must be beside themselves with grief!"

"Sally, you are a werewolf, and your home is with us now," said Dara, and looking at her, Wolvercote felt conflicted for the first time, and pained at being pressured in this manner.

"She needs to know the whole truth," said Clara, who was observing her carefully. "Sally, some of us are outlaws to the Ministry, and if they found us, they might arrest us. We will not consent to living under their laws."

"Our place is hidden with magic that they do not yet know," said Sara, "but given their compulsion to control all things magical, and to plot every square millimeter of enchanted space, they will make a concerted effort to find us, which may culminate in violent conflict of a sort we wish to avoid."

"Oh," said Wolvercote with some disappointment. "Then I won't say anything about how I was rescued or by whom. But it really would be a shame not to tell Hermione the truth, because she doubts the conventional wisdom about female werewolves never escaping with their lives, and wants to do more research on the subject. She thinks wizards underestimate witches--doesn't she deserve to know she was right?"

At this she saw the demeanor of the other witches change, and they looked at each other with unspoken thoughts.

"Sally," said Dara, "all werewolves were separated from our families, but found a new family here. You don't need to decide tonight what to do. But every night that weather permits we werewolves go hunting for deer and other local game -- no humans of course. Wouldn't you like to join the hunt and see what it's like? You haven't had the true wolf experience without that."

When Wolvercote looked at Dara, the cutest person she had ever seen, the idea of home receded, though not without a residue of guilt. She loved adventure. How could she refuse a probable once in a lifetime opportunity to go hunting as a wolf in a wolf pack?

"I'll tell you what," she said, thinking she might be in a position to bargain. "I will stay for the next hunt if you will let me send an owl to my parents with a letter telling them I am safe, but without any specifics about you or this place. You may read the letter. And provided you will let me go when I am ready, I will agree not to tell your secrets to anyone you wish to keep them from."

The other witches looked at Talachawinga, who nodded.

"Very well, Sally," said Clara. She rose and retrieved a quill, some ink, and a sheet of paper handmade from some plant fiber from a shelf farther back in the cave. Then she indicated that Wolvercote should follow her, and led the newcomer through a passage in the rock that opened to the cave with the bed where she had awoken earlier that day. Clara then drew a wand from a pocket in her wrap and pointed it at something sitting on another shelf in the rock. " _Incendio!_ " she said, and candlelight flickered in the nearly dark cave.

"Give us the letter when you are ready, Sally. You must be exhausted. Perhaps you want to wait until morning. Sleep well, and we will see you when the sun is up." Leaving the writing implements by the bed, and Wolvercote in it, Clara returned to the meeting chamber. But when Wolvercote thought of her grief-stricken parents, she knew she could not wait until morning.

Clara returned to the meeting room and, without sitting down, spoke the two words most on the mind of the Sorceresses: "Hermione Granger."

"Is it time to invite her here?" said Sara, looking at Talachawinga.

"She is too busy to come," said Tara.

"Just for a visit, I mean?" said Sara.

"She does not belong here," said Mara. "She works for the Ministry, and if she finds out about us, so will they."

"We have never denied any witch who seeks the truth," said Clara. "Remember Mara, many witches in the Wizarding World have kept our secret over the centuries."

"Witches who didn't accept patriarchy," said Mara. "Hermione is not like us. She is an Athena."

Clara and Dara looked at each other as if to say this was typical Mara material.

"What do you mean?" said Sara curiously.

"The type of woman who excels within the culture and rules of patriarchal society, who has the type of intelligence they recognize, and is held up by them as evidence of supposed gender equality, but on their terms. Hermione, thought to be the cleverest girl in the Wizarding World, served the cause of Harry Potter and now serves the wizard government, and would never disobey its rules. So Athena, the female goddess of wisdom, regarded by the misguided as evidence of her worshippers' feminism, was used by Greek men to legitimize their overthrow of the Furies and to trivialize the matrilineal tie that underlay matriarchy. Do you recall her judgment in the case of Orestes?"

"That was the account of one Greek playwright," said Sara. "Mara, you know the Greek goddesses and all goddesses down through the Virgin Mary have been parts of the Goddess in disguise, however they have been depicted by men or made to fit into their religions. There are other stories regarding Athena."

"What does this have to do with Hermione?" said Tara impatiently.

"It has to do with the inside of Mara's head," said Dara.

"I disagree with you deeply about Hermione, Mara," said Clara. "She has a mind of her own, and always fought for what was right, and worked for radical change. She fought the Death Eaters for the freedom of all, not for Harry as an individual. We should rejoice that she has some political power -- something some of us sought in vain."

"That's right!" said Dara hotly. "Mara has Hermione completely wrong! She has the soul of a true witch, and has been fighting for real change since she was a teenager! No one tells her what to think! The news from our new sister proves it!"

"Can you imagine Hermione rejecting the authority of the Ministry and following Dionysus into the woods to find the source of her real power?" said Mara.

"Fortunately not," said Clara. "She's more likely to be found where she's needed and can make a difference."

"If that's your way of thinking," said Mara, looking at Clara steadily, "what are you doing up here?"

"We all know what we're doing up here," said Dara, "but that doesn't mean change is not possible down there. The question is whether to introduce ourselves to Hermione. I believe she will not betray us if she understands our reasons."

"But would she be forced to, as a member of the Ministry?" said Sara. "She is the sort to take her obligations seriously. Would she have to lie to them? Does Mara have a point that some rule might compel her to make us known?"

"Less likely that than her love of information and its dissemination," said Clara thoughtfully. "If anything would make her susceptible to such a sense of obligation, it would most likely be that."

"Then you're not sure either?" said Tara. "What does our elder say?" They all looked at Talachawinga.

"We have never denied a witch who seeks the truth," echoed the ancient one.

"But we have never invited an outsider here without consensus," said Bonita, looking at Mara.

"If the consensus is to invite her, I will not oppose you," said Mara. "I am more prepared than some of you for the battle that will come eventually. We would find out which way Hermione would go if she had to choose sides."

"I have another idea," said Clara. "I believe we can give her a clue that will answer her question about the female werewolves, and explain ourselves to her without giving information on how we can be found, and so she will understand why it's better that we are not. It will be the sort of thing the less curious and thorough would overlook, and that the Ministry would not take seriously anyway, and she would not feel any obligation to tell them about it, with no proof and no way of locating us."

"What sort of clue?" said Bonita.

"Something an active researcher like her will find," said Clara. "Of course any witch who decides to join us will be magically invited as they always have been."

"Time to pick up your once famous pen?" said Sara.

"With no proof?" said Mara. "The sort of thing the Ministry would not take seriously? In that case Hermione won't either. She excels in male mental methods."

"In my view you are serving patriarchy yourself," said Clara, "when you characterize the use of reason and evidence as a male mental method."

The younger Sorceresses looked a bit like they felt the tremor of an earthquake. Then one raised her voice again.

"This discussion shows your idea is a good one, Clara," said Tara. "If she is wise, she will gain the knowledge, and be discreet, and if not she will dismiss it as fiction, and her path will not cross ours."

At that moment a noise from the rear passageway caused them to turn. Wolvercote was standing at the edge of the chamber with a newly written letter in her hand.

"Excuse me -- I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've written the letter to my parents. I wrote their address on the other side." She put the letter in Clara's hand.

"Thank you, Sally," said Clara. "Now please go back to bed and get some sleep." But when Wolvercote entered the passageway again she hung back, trying to hear what the Sorceresses would say.

Clara perused the letter. "I think this is not a problem. We should not torment her with any unnecessary delay." She passed the letter to Talachawinga, and it was passed around and read by all the Sorceresses. They all agreed that it was acceptable, and that Clara's owl would deliver it the next day.


	5. The Meeting of Minds

_Wednesday, October 19, 2005 – Waning Gibbous_

Hermione wanted to meet with Gillyfeld as soon as possible, and since he had said likewise and that he was not working the following day, she sent him an owl early in the morning asking whether he could come in at nine o'clock, and he agreed. At nine there was a knock on her office door, which she had left open as she usually did. She looked toward it and was startled to see a man dressed in white jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a casual tan suede jacket, all Muggle clothes. She felt an echo of memory from a long-lost past, then thought how good he looked, but immediately suppressed the notion. He seemed hesitant.

"Healer Gillyfeld?" she said encouragingly.

"Madam Granger?"

"Please have a seat," she said, and he sat down in a chair she had placed opposite her desk while she closed the door and returned to her place behind it.

"Thank you so much for coming here on such short notice," she said. "I hope you understand why I want to talk to you." He nodded. "You've had as much contact with werewolves as I have," she said, thinking _maybe more_ , but that as the former head of WSS she could not say that. "Do you have any ideas about why this attack should happen now, when no one's been bitten by a werewolf since the year following the war, and we've been sending lunasturtia harvesters to Beerden every full moon for four years?"

"To be honest, I was always afraid something like this might happen. Most werewolves want to be part of mainstream society and know the easiest way to do it is to take the potion, but when I was recruiting volunteers for the clinical trial, I found out that a lot them suspected it was poison because of the wolfsbane in it, and there were some who were still mistrustful even after the trial. Werewolves were hostile to the Ministry because for hundreds of years it imposed a code of conduct on them and invaded their privacy without guaranteeing them any rights. Most werewolves know about the changes you've made, but I imagine there are some who still won't listen to anything from the Ministry or, maybe even as a matter of principle, obey any of its directives. Some of them may not have read any materials you sent out, or happened to be in the Den when you went there."

"Well, I agree with them exactly about responsibilities and rights, that you can't ask for one without the other. Wanting to change things like that was one of the reasons I wanted to work here. But what I'm getting at is, do you think it was a werewolf who didn't know any better, or that someone is deliberately trying to sabotage our program?"

"The only reason I could see for that, and it's not beyond imagination, is that there may be one or more werewolves who think we're deliberately trying to poison them, and maybe even that the current effort at integration is a trick to accomplish this. Crazy conspiracy theories do have a market among people who have reason to be alienated."

"Do you think my political enemies may be involved, or does that sound like a crazy conspiracy theory? Like former Death Eaters or their sympathizers?"

"I don't think mainstream conservatives would go that far," said Gillyfeld. "As for former Death Eaters, I would think the ones who are lucky enough to have their freedom would still be keeping a low profile."

"That's what I thought too, but I have a friend in Magical Law Enforcement, someone very experienced, who thinks otherwise. He's been monitoring the activities of people like that throughout his career, and they kept hurting Muggles and messing with Dark Magic during the interwar years. He thinks they're already up to funny business."

"The kind of funny business that would send them back to Azkaban?" The question reminded Hermione that Gillyfeld was an Azkaban survivor himself.

“I don't know, but I expect my friend will keep on it. That's really a matter for Magical Law Enforcement. It's my department's business to work with the werewolves, and I'm interested to know if you have any advice about that. I've tried to make Werewolf Support Services as friendly as possible, but not many people come here for support. I mean we offer employment assistance and legal and personal counseling, all for free, but they just come in, pick up their voucher for the potion, and then leave. We don't even have enough vouchers, because the amount of potion made is based on the number of werewolves in the Register, and some of them aren't registering. I have a battle with other people in the government to convince them to base the allocations on a higher estimate than we get from the Register, because a lot of them think the werewolves that don't register don't want to take the potion. But some of the ones that don't register pop in for vouchers, and don't want to talk to me, and I can't give a good answer as to why they don't register."

“Ms. Granger, do you remember how you felt when you were asked to register as a Muggle-born witch?”

The question hit her like a slap in the face. “I was already a fugitive,” she said. “I wasn’t there to receive the summons.” The memory of that time, so distant from her current life, made her unable to speak for a moment. "But this is completely different," she said a little defensively. "Everyone knew Voldemort's government wanted us to register in order to send us to Azkaban. We only want to help them."

"But past governments wanted them to register in order to track their movements without their consent. That's why the Registry was created. There were times when any werewolf was subject to arrest if he didn't register, didn't inform the Ministry where he'd be at full moon, or was found to have gone somewhere else, even if no one was hurt. It was a massive invasion of their privacy. There was an underlying assumption that they could be expected to be irresponsible, regardless of their record. And that Registry was in the Beast Division, as if they weren't even rational beings. Do you think they've forgotten all that?"

"Do you think I don't know all that?" said Hermione, who was starting to feel angry. "It's been years since I -- we changed that. That's what I've been working on since the day I started in WSS."

"I know, I know," said Gillyfeld eagerly, "and you've done a brilliant job, better than anyone else in your position could have done, I don't doubt. But H--Ms. Granger--"

"Oh, call me Hermione," she said impatiently, since she could see that any kind of formality was not natural to him.

"There are some things you learn from experience, Hermione, and in my case one of them was that sometimes discretion is very important. I say this because when I was young I had very little of it, less than you, I dare say. During the war years I learned about the courage of people who protected the identities of Muggle-born wizards, and the cowardice of those who turned them in. And I've learned that there is nothing werewolves mind more than being outed by someone else. They don't want to be seen here because it gives away to other people that they are werewolves, and there is still a lot of discrimination, both in employment and social life. With the new law that will change, but it will take some time. Is there any reason the Healers can't give out the vouchers in private, and the apothecaries count them, and send a request for the corresponding quantity of the ingredients you harvest, and for the money to pay for the other ones, to the Ministry? That's more or less how it's done with other essential potions."

Hermione was stunned. Why hadn't she thought of this? She felt a return of the impressed feeling she'd had when Gillyfeld had testified before the Wizengamot, and it stirred something in her that had been stirred then. Had she finally met a wizard who was as clever as she was, maybe more so? “Yes, I suppose you’re right," she said. "The hospital could give out the vouchers instead of us, and a werewolf could get it when he goes in to be treated for the bite. Or he could show the bite to a Healer. He could give the voucher to an apothecary for a standing order, and we can continue to pay the apothecaries based on the number of orders, like we do now.”

“Exactly,” he said, relieved that she had caught on so quickly. "And the Register," he added, "was never that useful anyway, because there were always werewolves who avoided registering, including the ones who were most likely to do harm."

"I doubt whether I could discontinue the Registry," she said in a troubled tone. "We're under so much fire for being too lax already. But there is another subject I want to ask you about. Can you tell me everything you know about lunasturtia?"

“When I took Herbology it hadn’t been discovered yet. It was discovered by werewolves, because it only grows in Morden and Beerden, and is most visible at the full moon, and any one else who made the mistake of going into those forests at full moon usually came back a werewolf, if at all. I believe that Damocles Belby was experimenting with giving small doses of wolfsbane to some werewolves, with or without their informed consent, and one of them must have told him about this plant that eases the pain of their transformations. Wolfsbane is the ingredient that takes the dementia out of the wolf state, but it’s hard to give enough to be effective without killing the werewolf. Belby found that it could be done if this new ingredient was added, and he got credit for its discovery, as well as for inventing the potion.”

“But isn’t it strange that it was only discovered so recently, relatively speaking? And that it only grows in two or three places? I’m going to see if I can track down earlier references, and to get whoever planted it on the grave, if anyone did, to come forward. If we could figure out how to grow it ourselves, we wouldn’t have this problem with the harvest. We've decided to cancel next month’s harvest, and to make the harvesting job a permanent, professional one with better training. With the revenues now coming in, we can afford to hire and train more people."

"I love the income tax," he said, looking at her with such camaraderie that for the first time since the evening of the harvest she was starting to feel warm-blooded. "The apothecaries have enough of the potion to supply it for at least two months at the rate we've been doing. But I'd advise you to let the werewolves know about the change in the voucher policy as soon as possible. They will appreciate it, and I think the improvement in communication may surprise you.”

“I’ll make a visit to the Den as soon as I have approval for the change. I’ll post notices and try to see that everyone knows about it.”

“There’s never been anyone like you here before. I don’t think anyone from the old Ministry ever set foot in the Den.”

Again she was momentarily at a loss for words.

“Can I help you with anything else?" he said.

She wanted to say yes, but in fact he had answered all the questions she could think of asking. "I've probably taken up enough of your time. Thank you so much for coming in, Healer Gillyfeld. You've been a great help."

"Oh, call me Steve," he said. "Thank you for asking me. Please keep me in the loop."

He rose to go, and with the knowledge she was about to be left alone, all the anxiety and horror of the previous day started to come flooding back on her and was written on her face. An image of the dead man mauled by werewolves came into her mind, and for a moment she did not see the live one in front of her. But when she noticed him again she saw that he was looking at her compassionately, as if he knew what she was thinking.

"It's hard, isn't it?" he said kindly.

"Yes."

"Keep the faith," he said, and since she said no more, walked out the door.

She looked after him as he walked away, fighting a temptation to get up from her chair in order to keep him in her sight for longer. She wanted to see this wizard again, and not only to consult him about her work. If she wanted to see him socially she would have to have the nerve to ask him out. She did not believe he was married. It was hard to peg his age, for though he showed signs of aging, she knew he had been in Azkaban, and there was a kind of youthful energy about him that made age seem less important. She knew that he had been a Healer before the war and guessed that he was probably at least forty. Was it possible that a man his age with so much to recommend him was unattached? Yes, it was possible, people were always changing partners, even if they wanted them. Whether he was in the market, she did not know, but she was feeling an increasing interest in finding out.

***

After leaving Hermione’s office, Gillyfeld made for the lift, and as he reached it a witch was just stepping into it, and he stepped in behind her. She was wearing rather shabby dark green robes and had long, wavy, rather frizzy hair with a few streaks of silver in it – _witch hair_ , he thought – and as he noticed when he saw them, eyes of a rather striking blue-green color. Neither of them spoke as the lift descended and the lift voice announced the fifth floor. The door opened and a tall, very fair-haired young man in expensive-looking black robes stepped in, and Gillyfeld thought he saw the witch give a slight shudder. When he glanced at the newcomer’s face, his own stomach churned, for the young man bore a striking resemblance to Lucius Malfoy, and he realized it must be Lucius’s son, Draco.

“Level One,” said the young man, and Gillyfeld’s stomach churned again as, to his surprise, the lift changed direction and ascended. When they reached Level One, the young man stepped out and the lift door closed behind him.

“I wonder whether he’s come to bribe someone at the Ministry like his father used to do,” said the witch, and Gillyfeld laughed.

“Maybe he’s come to lobby against the income tax,” he said. The witch laughed. He felt an immediate sense of kinship with this woman who would apparently say whatever came into her head to anyone. After all, what did she know about him? Then, to his even greater surprise, she started to sing:

_"The taxman’s taken all my dough_

_And left me in my stately home_

_Lazin’ on a sunny afternoon_

_And I can’t sail my yacht_

_He’s taken everything I’ve got_

_All I’ve got’s this sunny afternoon."_

Gillyfeld laughed again. “That must be a Muggle song,” he said.

“Do you know it?”

“How would I?”

“Aren’t you a Muggle-born wizard?”

“How did you know?”

“No Muggle could get into the Ministry, and no one who grew up in the Wizarding World would know how to dress like that.”

_Of course, my clothes_ , he thought. He had forgotten he was wearing them. “And you are too, I take it?” he said, talking over the lift voice, which they both ignored.

“What?”

“From a Muggle family?”

“Oh no, I’m a pure-blood witch. Pure as the Arctic snow pack,” she said with such a silly expression that he didn’t know whether she was joking.

“The Arctic ice is melting at an alarming rate,” he said, wanting to keep the conversation going.

“I know! I wish I could get people around here to be more interested in things like that. They seem to think it’s a Muggle problem, as if we didn’t live on the same planet.”

Gillyfeld stared. Wizards not seeming to realize they belonged to the same human race as Muggles was the greatest disappointment of his life.

“I work in the Office for the Protection of Endangered Beasts, and fantastic beasts are very sensitive to ecological change,” she explained. “My name is Bette Barbary. Can I ask what brought you to our department?”

“I’m a Healer. I – I’ve been involved with supplying the Wolfsbane Potion, and I came to consult with Ms. Granger because of the recent werewolf attack. Some people are getting the wrong message. It would be an even bigger tragedy if there was a reversal in the treatment of werewolves because of this.”

She looked at him as if remembering something. “Are you going back to the hospital, then?”

He hesitated. He had planned to return to his parents’ house, but it was getting toward lunchtime, and he wondered whether he could manage to have lunch with this woman whose company he was finding quite agreeable.

“I’m off work today, as it happens,” he said. “I’m actually rather hungry. Is there a cafeteria here? Would I be allowed in, do you think?”

“Yes, there’s a cafeteria off the Atrium. Why don’t you join me for lunch? I’ve been seen with stranger creatures than you.”

"Capital."

“Level Eight,” she said, and the lift descended. When they walked out into the Atrium, several people gave Gillyfeld curious or puzzled looks, but seemed less interested when they noticed whom he was with. She led him across the open space and into the cafeteria.

He followed her to the food counter and they each picked up a tray. No one was behind the counter, but plates of food were floating from a room at the back, which he realized was the kitchen, onto the counter. The cooks were tossing them with such skill that nothing was spilling. A wizard in front of them said, "Roast beef, please," in a normal tone, and Gillyfeld wondered how the kitchen staff could hear him.

"There's an extendable ear to the kitchen," said Barbary. "Vegetarian, please," she spoke into it, showing him where it was.

Gillyfeld glanced up and saw a chalkboard with the day's available lunches written on it. "Fish and chips, please," he said. A plate of eggplant parmesan wafted onto the counter in front of them, and then a plate of fish and chips. They put their food on their trays and each helped themselves to one of the salads that were already on the counter farther down the line. Then he followed her to an empty table and they each sat down.

"So you work in the Office for the Protection of Endangered Beasts? That sounds interesting," said Gillyfeld as they both started eating.

"I wish more people found it interesting," said Barbary. "We're short staffed."

"Hasn't the Ministry been short staffed altogether since the war? They should use some of their new revenues to hire people."

"Listen," said Barbary, "I know it's a long shot, but I want to ask you something. You said you have the day off, and you probably have other plans, but I could really use the help of a Healer in my work this afternoon. I don't suppose you feel like volunteering for the Ministry on your day off?"

"What is you need help with?" he said with interest.

"Rescuing Jarveys from fur traps on the Witch's Heath. I do a lot of field work. I expect, if not fun, it would still be a change from your normal activities."

Gillyfeld hardly knew which part of this statement he found most surprising. "You mean in Scotland?" he said.

"No, there's a Witch's Heath in the London area that was named after the one in Scotland. We can access it through the Muggle Heath. I mean, the park. Or by flying."

"Are Jarveys getting caught in fur traps? What kind of traps are these?"

"Traps that are set for them. There didn't used to be much interest in Jarvey pelts, but in recent decades there have been increasing bans on the trapping of more popular beasts, and so trappers have moved into this niche and created a market for them. They had always been difficult to trap, but the trappers have created a steel box that makes gnome sounds, and the Jarveys climb into them when they're open, and then the open end snaps shut. The sounds continue and the Jarveys become infuratied and bang against the sides of the box until they knock themselves out or die. It's very cruel."

"Sounds very cruel," said Gillyfeld.

"I had some difficulty convincing the Ministry of the seriousness of this, but they have recently banned the practice, and I go out both to rescue the Jarveys and to collect the traps so we can try to trace the poachers. Most wizards don't care much about the cruelty, because they don't much like Jarveys, but I pointed out that without Jarveys there'll be an explosion of the gnome population, and that will mean a depletion of the things gnomes eat, not just in people's gardens but in the wild. Since gnomes eat vegetation that's at the base of the food chain, many species could be affected. It's amazing how interconnected we living things all are."

"We certainly are. I'd be delighted to help if I could, but I don't have any veterinary training."

"That won't be necessary. I can show you what to do. A steady hand and some basic knowledge of administering potions will help."

Gillyfeld considered. He never liked to refuse a call for help, even if it didn't happen to come from an interesting witch, which now it did. He had told his parents he had been called back to his own world by an emergency, and since he had given no details, they didn't know if or when to expect him back. If he managed to make it back to his mother's home for supper, she ought to be pleased enough.

"I'll do it," he said. "I didn't really have other plans. You're right that working outdoors is a break from my usual routine. If I do it's in an emergency or the aftermath of a catastrophe--but perhaps that's what this is from your point of view."

"I don't doubt you've seen worse. Thank you so much Healer--?"

"Steve Gillyfeld. Shall I go back to the hospital first to pick up my supplies? How will we travel?"

"I have everything we need already in the truck," she said, and smiled when he started in surprise on hearing this word from her mouth. "My division has a Muggle pickup truck that has been enchanted so it can fly. It's very useful for transporting beasts."

"You amaze me. I thought the Ministry prohibited the enchantment of Muggle objects."

"There isn't any workplace where everyone follows the rules, not even here. I have an old friend in Magical Law Enforcement who's always been fascinated by Muggle machines, and long ago he illegally enchanted a Muggle car so that it could fly. I realized such a thing would be perfect for my work, and I managed to convince my boss of this, if it could be done discreetly. I said I knew a wizard who thought he could do it, and I convinced Charlie to let us buy a Muggle pickup truck and my friend succeeded again, and we pretended it was done by an outsider. Charlie's not much of a micromanager, thank goodness."

"And where is this truck parked?" said Gillyfeld, who was starting to get excited about what was looking increasingly like an interesting adventure.

"There's a tunnel to an underground Muggle garage from Level Ten. Just down two floors and follow me. No, wait--I should go up and get my cloak first. You already have the perfect disguise." She had almost finished her food, and made to get up from the table.

"Shall I wait for you down here, then?" he said.

"Yes, please. I'll only be a few minutes."

Ten minutes later Gillyfeld had finished his lunch and Barbary returned in a black wool cloak that would look less strange to Muggles than her witch's robes. They left the cafeteria and made their way through the Atrium to the lift area.

"We might as well take the stairs,” she said, leading him to a small black door that opened to a stairwell. They descended two flights, Gillyfeld’s heart skipping a beat at the thought of how close he came to the Department of Mysteries, a place which fascinated him and to which he had never had access. He followed her down a few dank, dark corridors, past a number of unmarked doors, until she opened one that led them into total darkness.

" _Lumos!_ " she said, and her wand illuminated a small, winding corridor with rock walls and no doors, and Gillyfeld realized this must be the tunnel. A fifteen minute walk through this unnervingly closed off space brought them to another door, which opened into what looked indeed like the bottom floor of an underground Muggle parking garage. As they entered the garage and the door closed behind them, Gillyfeld saw that it had no handle on the garage side.

She led him to where her truck was parked, a battered and dirty beige pickup. He noticed a large cage lined with blankets as well as some baggage in the back. She pulled out a device that appeared to magically cause the doors to unlock, but Gillyfeld had recently seen such devices in the hands of Muggles and knew it had been sold with the truck.

"I'll drive to a place where we can take off without being seen," said Barbary, "and we'll fly to the Heath. My flat is very close to there, so sometimes I take them home so they can rest a bit before traveling more. They're temperamental when they're awake, but heal quite quickly when they're potioned, which is what we'll be doing."

They took their seats in the cab and she turned on the vehicle and grabbed the gear stick.

"You know how to drive, then?" he said. "I never learned."

"I've never met a Muggle-born witch or wizard who knew how to drive. They're busy enough as youngsters learning how to Apparate."

She drove around and up through many levels of the garage and at last he saw daylight as they faced the exit to the street. She took something sitting on the dashboard and showed it to a machine operating the gate, which lifted to let them out.

She turned onto the street, too close to oncoming traffic by his reckoning, and sped down it for a few blocks as if to make up for this by leaving the other traffic behind. She almost missed a stop sign, breaking suddenly and stopping past the line, barely avoiding a collision with a little car in the cross street. Gillyfeld became increasingly nervous as they traversed city streets and he saw that whatever she said, she hardly knew how to drive herself. He held his breath as they entered a roundabout, again barely missing the car behind them, and only exhaled when they had left it in a similar manner. She seemed to ignore the honking of the other drivers. At last she turned into an empty alley.

"Please slow down," he said.

"Not for long," she said, turning into another empty, narrow street. "Is your seatbelt fastened?"

"Yes," he said, and she began to pick up speed. Though he didn't put much stock in the efficacy of prayer, he was close to praying, because he thought that if she wasn't any more competent at flying this machine than at driving it on the ground they were probably both dead. His fear increased as they continued to pick up speed, since he was not sure she had properly calculated the empty distance ahead of them, but before they collided with anything he felt the push beneath him of the vehicle leaving the ground, and as they flew smoothly into open air he started to relax a bit. He looked around and was a bit thrilled to see the city receding below them, but still unnerved that, unlike on a broom, he had no control.

A few minutes later she landed the vehicle on the grass in an open field, and Gillyfeld took a minute to recover his breath and let his stomach settle. By the time he got out of the cab she was at the back sorting out her supplies.

"I have vials of calming potion solution with three drops each, which is enough to put one of them in a tranquil slumber for about twenty-four hours."

"That's pretty close to the dose for a human," Gillyfeld observed. "Do you have syringes for them?"

Barbary laughed. "A Jarvey is likely to become more incensed at the sight of a needle, especially if it looks like a wizard is about to stick them with it. We'll administer them by mouth. That's where I'll need your skilled hand." She picked up the bag with the potion vials in it and handed it to him. "Follow me and you'll see what I mean about the sound of the traps. Listen for gnome noises."

"I'm not that familiar with gnome noises. Our gnomes were made of porcelain."

"I forgot about that. I think you'll catch on soon enough."

He followed her as she walked through the field toward a little woods nearby, and as he listened carefully he heard what he believed not to be gnomes but insects, frogs and songbirds. Looking around intently as well, he was struck by the beauty of the place. He had supposed that by "the Muggle heath" she probably meant Hamstead Heath, but the air here seemed fresher than there or than anywhere in the Muggle city. It occurred to him, as it often did, that it was a privilege to be a wizard. Then he did hear some odd sounds that sounded a bit like human voices, but short and squeaky and not speaking any language he recognized.

"Aha!" said Barbary, as she led them behind a willow tree and pointed to a large steel box that was oddly animated. There was a loud thud as an inward collision shifted it a couple of inches on the ground, and then a more intelligible sound was heard.

“Dingbat damn it! Blasted bloody wizards! Lovely aren’t they, bloody rotten wizards!” There was another loud thud.

“Sounds like a Jarvey alright,” said Gillyfeld, for this sound was more notorious. Barbary aimed her wand at the box and cast a spell that caused it to spring open. He stepped forward and looked inside. The Jarvey was thrashing helplessly in the box, and he could see foam in its mouth and some bloody patches in its fur. "Ay! The poor thing!” he said.

He was momentarily puzzled. He didn’t think he could get it to swallow any potion, but to use a stunning spell on such an injured animal would be unsafe, and the creature's bites were not trivial. He wondered why she had not given him any protective gloves, but she had stepped forward and started stroking the back of its head and muttering something to it, and its invective quickly slowed to mumbling and grumbling, and its movements to the occasional slight thrash.

"Quick now!" she said as to his surprise she managed to insert a finger into its jaw. He opened and emptied a vial of the potion into its mouth, and then watched the creature's body gradually relax into slumber. She picked it up and carried it like a baby over to the truck, and since he could do nothing without her, he followed her and watched her lay it gently down on the blankets in the cage. She turned to him and smiled.

"Do you know what to listen for now? Can I give you a whistle and send you out separately, or do you want to look for the next one together?"

Gillyfeld felt he knew what to listen for now, and since he was most at ease where he could be most useful, asked for the whistle. She gave him a magic whistle that could be heard at the same volume from any distance, and demonstrated the sound of her own, and they set out in different directions to look for more traps. In the course of the next couple of hours he found one and she found four more, and in each case one of them summoned the other and they repeated the process of anesthetizing the animal.

He kept watching her during this process with increasing fascination, because she seemed to show a degree of tender loving care toward these animals that few wizards would ever show such beasts, and it reminded him of the care with which he handled his own patients. He believed that she was motivated in her work by something similar to what motivated him in his own, and that meant that they had the most important thing in common. There was something beautiful to him in the expression of her face as she did her work, her concentration on which was such as to enable him to study it unobserved. He liked everything he had observed about her from the time he had stepped into the elevator and noticed her unique hair and eyes. He wondered many things, including whether she was single, whether he could see her again, why she had no one to assist her in a two-person job, and whether she really needed a professional Healer to assist her. He intended to tell her to contact him if he could help again, but would also have to say that he would usually be unavailable, given the demands of his own job.

When they had deposited the sixth Jarvey in the cage, she turned to him and repeated that she lived nearby. "We'll take them to my flat for tonight, and I'll drive them into the Beast Infirmary tomorrow morning. Would you like to stop in for tea?"

"I'd love to," he said truthfully. As they each got into their seats, he hoped her proximity to home would make more flying unnecessary, but knew there might be no road exit from this magical place.

"We can take a road exit out of here," she said to his relief. "I live in a Wizarding neighborhood. I don't like to subject them to takeoff and landing in this condition." She drove across the field and soon they were on a dirt road that eventually led to a quiet city street. She parked in a lot by an old-looking four-story building. They each got out and she picked up the Jarvey cage from the back.

"Would you like me to take that?" he said as they reached the front door.

"For a moment," she said. He took the cage, which was very heavy, and she used her wand to unlock the door. "There's no lift," she said, "and I'm on the third floor, so we'll have to take the stairs."

"I've got it," he said, making for the stairs with the cage.

"Don't be silly," she said from behind him, and then, " _Wingardium Leviosa!_ "

He felt the weight lift from beneath his hand and he let go. He realized she was probably very handy with this spell since no doubt she moved such things up her stairs all the time. He let her pass him, guiding the cage before her, and followed her up the stairs. When they reached the door of her flat she put down the cage again to open her door, and then picked it up by hand and carried it inside, where he followed her.

Her flat consisted of a single large room with a bed at one end and a cauldron station in the far corner of the same side, a small bathroom off the other end, and a window in the wall opposite the door. For an instant he had an uncharacteristically presumptuous thought: _I could offer her something better_. He was just taking in that the room was painted turquoise -- _like her eyes_ , he thought -- when something nearly startled him out of his skin. She made a series of complicated hissing sounds while something green and shiny flashed around the edges of the room, and in a moment a large green snake was coiled around her.

"You're a Parselmouth!" he said in amazement. "I've never known anyone personally who was a Parselmouth."

"You were probably a Gryffindor."

"Merlin's harp! Don't tell me you were a Slytherin!"

"Shocking, isn't it? But consider these things: I'm from a pure-blood family, I love reptiles, and green and silver were my favorite colors. I was admiring the Slytherin banner when the hat was on my head. I was always a space case."

"Did you assume I was a Gryffindor because we didn't associate with Slytherins? You haven't seen any proof of my courage, have you?"

"Yes. You wore Muggle clothes to the Ministry."

Gillyfeld laughed. Then he noticed something that startled him almost as much as the snake. On the other side of the room he saw what looked like an old-fashioned Muggle record player on a little table with a small collection of LPs underneath it. "Isn't that a Muggle record player?" he said. "It looks like the one my parents had."

"It's a Muggle record player," agreed Barbary.

"How did it get into the home of a pure-blood witch?"

"My Muggle boyfriend gave it to me."

Gillyfeld felt something bite him at the news that she had a boyfriend, but at the same time he was fascinated to hear the fellow was a Muggle. It was unusual for Muggle-born wizards to date Muggles, let alone pure-blood ones, and for a Slytherin it was unheard of.

"You have a Muggle boyfriend? That's cool."

Her face fell. "Once had. I lost him."

"Oh," he said, feeling even more conflicted, seeing that he had said something that had given her pain at the same time as she had relieved his own selfish feelings. He was afraid to ask what she meant by "lost him", so tried turn the conversation to something more cheering.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you can talk to snakes, seeing what a way you have with beasts," he said.

"I love anything that walks on four legs, as well as things that creep and crawl," she said, depositing the snake in an open plexiglass box in the corner of the room.

"You must have gotten along famously with Hagrid."

"Yes, I was one of his pets, and spent as much time as I could down there. I think that's the only way I survived school. As you can imagine, I was a real misfit in Slytherin."

"Are you seriously telling me the hat put you there because you liked the colors of their banner?"

"No, no, there was more to it than that. You see, I was from a pure-blood family, and I was brought up to think it was Muggles who persecuted witches and wizards, not the other way around. That the people who stuck up for wizard blood were sticking up for the underdog. My parents didn't like Voldemort, but thought there was some justice in his cause. Muggles used to torture and kill people for witchcraft. I thought, when I was a little idiot, it was the Slytherins who had wizard pride. I wanted to be proud of what I was."

"That's understandable," said Gillyfeld. "Muggles did torture and kill people for witchcraft, but that was hundreds of years ago, during times of religious fear and insecurity. They used to burn my people too."

"Your people?" she said, puzzled.

"I'm Jewish," he said. "Do you know any Jewish people?"

"I think I might have, but they didn't talk about it. But wasn't that more recent? Wasn't there a big massacre of -- your people in that big Muggle war?"

Gillyfeld was startled again. He spoke more quietly but sharply, with an intensity that took her aback. "Where did you hear about that?"

"Jimmy told me about it. His parents met in the war. His father was in the airplane force--"

"The R.A.F.?"

"That was it. And his mother drove a medical car."

"An ambulance." He took a few breaths, struggling to calm down. There was a part of her own story he was eager to hear, if she would tell it to him.

"Would you like to tell me how you went from the mindset you described when you became a Slytherin, to going out with a Muggle man? How you met him? If you feel like telling me, I would really like to know," he said.

She indicated that he should sit down on her bed, and she pulled over a chair and sat down herself. He was encouraged by this, because he wanted to know as much about her as he could, and it looked as if she was preparing to tell him a story. She seemed to have forgotten about tea, and he did not remind her.

“During my first couple of years at Hogwarts,” she began, “I was friends with a couple of other Slytherin girls my age. We used to have fun exploring the dungeons and making maps of them, and sometimes we played prisoner games and pretended we had been imprisoned by Muggles for witchcraft, and would surprise them with our curses when they came to torture or execute us. Sometimes we made forays into Muggle neighborhoods and played what I thought were harmless pranks on them. You know, like enchanting Muggle objects so that Muggles could only find them when they weren’t looking for them—“

“I knew it!” said Gillyfeld. “You and your friends must have gotten into our house. I wish I’d had the counter spell.”

“You’re not the only one,” said Barbary sadly. “One day I was peering out of a closet at a Muggle girl just a few years older than us whose stuff we had enchanted. I saw her fumble in a desk drawer and pull out a pen and try to write something on a piece of paper, but no ink came out. She fumbled frantically in the drawer and said, ‘Damn! Where’s my pen that works?’ Then she looked over at her bed and a look of real alarm appeared on her face. ‘Where the bloody hell are my notes?’ She looked around the room and picked up a satchel that was sitting on a chair and looked through it even more frantically. ‘I must have left them at school,’ she muttered. ‘She’ll never believe me this time.’

“Then she sat down on her bed with a completely defeated look on her face, and sank her head into her hands. That was when I realized this girl was just like me. A few weeks earlier a boy had stolen my notes, and feeling I was going to D the next day’s exam, if not T it, I had sat on my bed and sank my head into my hands in just such a defeated manner.

“After that I would not play pranks on Muggles, and my girlfriends called me a Muggle-lover and gave me the cold shoulder. I did not have any close friends in the house after that. I loved beasts and started spending some of my free time helping Hagrid. The Slytherins despised Hagrid, but not me as much, because many of them still respected the fact that I was a Parselmouth. They knew my interest in beasts included snakes, which where prized in my house. But as I became older I found out more about Voldemort, the Death Eaters, and the First War, and how evil they had been, and that most Slytherins were blood snobs, and what this led to.

“Then I wanted to spend as little time with them as possible, and spent almost all my free time helping Hagrid, and became something of an apprentice to him. When I finished school it was clear that it made sense for me to work in the Beast Division of the Creatures Department at the Ministry, and so I did.

“Then one day I was called out to relocate some Clabberts that been seen swinging around a forest in a Muggle-inhabited area, where a Muggle man had been seen staring at them with a shocked expression as they, also shocked, had flashed their red lights at him. I also was directed to modify the man’s memory so he would forget the incident. I flew by broom into the forest, where I engorged a cage I had carried with me, and lured the Clabberts into it with suitable snacks. Emerging from the forest, I saw a man sitting on a log, looking frightened and bewildered. When he saw me, he sank his head into his hands as if he were at the end of his rope, and again I felt that human connection, so when he asked who I was, I told him my name.

“He said that I looked like a witch and that he thought he saw me riding a broom. I was noticing that he was very cute. I protested, and he said with some bitterness that he must be hallucinating. He said that there had been mental illness in his family, and that he had not been doing well, but had hoped it would not come to this.

“I knew it was time to do the deed, but I hesitated. I didn’t feel I was any better than this man, and was it really for me to invade his mind and to decide what he should remember? I liked him and wished I could be friends with him, instead of making him forget me. And he had spoken of mental illness, and I wasn’t even sure that the spell would not harm him. I reached for my wand but did not take it out. I just couldn’t do it.”

An odd feeling of weakness washed over Gillyfeld. If it were possible to fall in love upon the hearing of a single sentence, she had just spoken the one for him.

“I told him that some creatures never before seen in Britain had escaped from the zoo, and I had been sent to retrieve them. I asked him whether I could meet him at the same place on another day, and he asked me to name the day and time, and he would be there.

“Many days after that we met in the same place, and I gently broke the truth to him, giving him modest demonstrations of my magic. I knew he still had doubts, but since we were mutually attracted we started to become lovers, and he kept saying that he wanted to see me again whether I was a hallucination or not. He would forsake the real world for mine, if that was what it took, but I explained to him why he needed to keep the magic a secret, and why I could not bring him to my world, but that I could visit his.

“One day he took me to meet his family, and I could see his relief when they all greeted me. I pretended to them that I was a Muggle, and now and then spent some time with him in his world.”

“What did you tell them at the Ministry?” said Gillyfeld.

“I told them that I was unable to perform memory modifications, and that if any were required they would have to be done by someone else. I wasn’t even sure I wouldn’t lose my job over this, but the fact was that I was so good at handling beasts that they did not want to lose me. I would have been hard to replace. So I was given something like conscientious objector status on this."

“That’s a Muggle term,” observed Gillyfeld.

“I picked it up from Jimmy. His father became disillusioned with the war effort because he was asked to bomb civilian targets that he thought were of doubtful military value, and that his commanding officers cared more about advancing their own careers than about winning the war. He advised Jimmy, if there was another war, to avoid combat. He said it could destroy him psychologically, and that there were other ways of fighting back.”

“I’d say Jimmy’s father was right!” said Gillyfeld, and again she was startled by his intensity. “Whatever reason the Allied governments had for fighting that war, it wasn’t to save the victims of the massacre. They could have done more good by accepting Jewish refugees than by bombing German cities.”

“You and Jimmy would have gotten on well. He said all Britain’s modern wars were imperialist wars, including that one. He was a socialist. Do you know what that is?”

“Of course. My grandparents were socialists.”

“From what he said I imagine it was more common for people of their generation. Jimmy said that most people now maintain that it’s been proven that socialism doesn’t work, but he said that no such thing had been proven, and that eventually it would be proven that the system we have now is not sustainable. Sometimes I wonder whether he could be right when I look at the destruction of nature.”

“What was Jimmy’s occupation?” asked Gillyfeld.

Barbary pointed to the wall to her right and he turned and saw a picture in a frame. He rose and walked over to it, and saw that it looked like a Muggle lithograph of a detailed drawing of a steam train moving through a mountainous landscape. “Is that supposed to be the Hogwarts Express?” he said.

“That’s the artist’s conception,” she said with a slight smile. “Jimmy was an artist, but couldn’t make a living that way, so he had a job making detailed drawings of industrial machinery that the Muggles needed for some reason. He found his job tedious, but he had a thing for old steam-powered trains. When I told him about the Hogwarts Express he was jealous and wished he could have ridden it. He said that having a creed that most people had abandoned made him the last of the good old-fashioned steam-powered trains.”

Gillyfeld laughed. “Was he a poet too?”

“It was a line from a song by his favorite rock band, which he also claimed was out of style. They also wrote the song I was singing in the lift. If you come again we’ll have to listen to some records,” she said with a gesture toward the LPs.

Encouraged by this, he looked at her more closely. “He sounds wonderful. Would you like to tell me how you lost him, or would you rather not?”

She sighed. “A powerful pure-blood supremacist found out about our relationship and threatened me, I won’t say with what. It was intolerable to him that a pure-blood witch should go out with a Muggle man, because my blood line might become contaminated. But I knew that Jimmy was in more danger than I was. Strange and ugly things sometimes happened to Muggle men who became involved with pure-blood witches.

“I told Jimmy about the threat, but I pretended that I was the one most in danger, or he would not have left me. I was very alone after this, because I had also become estranged from my family, who had disapproved of our relationship. Once again I found refuge and comfort among the beasts.”

For a moment she looked so crestfallen that he felt like taking her hands and kissing her, but he was not sure that she would want him to. She looked up again and smiled. “Now that you know my story, would you like to tell me yours?” she said. “Your grandparents were socialists?”

“That’s going back farther than you did, but they had an interesting story, so maybe I should say something about it.” He returned to sit down on the bed again. “You know the war was with Germany?”

“Yes. I gathered that Germany had come under the rule of some evil people with a maniacal leader, and that for a time they managed to conquer most of Europe. It sounded like Voldemort and the Death Eaters.”

“Something like, although Hitler was a mortal Muggle man who would never have been anything without supporters. My father’s parents were German Jews who managed to get out just in time, and to run away from one country to another until a Jewish immigration officer managed to smuggle them into Britain.

“Finding out about this made me realize at an early age that doing right and obeying the law are very different things. The Germans who carried out the slaughter were obeying the laws of their own government at the time. My grandparents were rescued illegally.”

“What about your mother’s parents? Were they socialists too?”

“No, they were conservative religious people. Orthodox, they’re called. Their family had been in London for generations. My father’s parents met them and eventually their children fell in love.”

“Was it an odd combination, the children of socialists and conservative religious people?”

“Not really. They were all people who believed in something. Something that was more important to them than conforming to the society around them. My father was very clever and hardworking and won a scholarship to Oxford and became a historian, so I was raised in physical comfort as a social misfit. I mean I had always been something of an oddball child, and when I returned from my first year at Hogwarts I found that the couple of friends I had before thought I was a freak and wanted nothing to do with me. So from then on I spent most of my summer holidays reading my parents’ books, since there wasn’t much else for me to do. I thought I wanted to be a historian like my father, because I agreed with him about the value of telling the truth about the past. But the history class at Hogwarts was so boring, and the practical things a wizard could do had so much possibility, that I came up with a different idea.

“I decided I wanted to be a Healer, and hoped to use my skills to help Muggles as well as wizards, since so much Muggle medicine does as much harm as good. Sometimes when you have an idea as a young person that you know could change the world, you think you were the first person to think of it, and that’s the reason it hasn’t been done yet. I didn’t quite realize, until I was out in the adult world, how central the Wizarding Statute of Secrecy is to our society. I had a hard time believing that it would take precedence over simple humanity. When as a Trainee Healer I told my idea to some of my colleagues, they didn’t believe I could be serious. So the most ambitious dream of my youth was broken at an early age.

“Then one day my grandmother fell and broke her hip, and was threatened with ongoing pain and disability and the likely hastening of her death. How could I not help when I knew how? I used a bone-healing charm on her. The Ministry prohibits the use of magic on Muggles, even in our own homes. I was called in for a reprimand by Magical Law Enforcement. I pointed out that everyone in my family already knew I was a wizard. I also pointed out that the oath that every wizard must take to qualify as a Healer includes the statement that we will not deny help to anyone in need. It says any _one_ , not any wizard. Maybe the oath dates back to before the statute, or it may be that wizards are so oblivious to anyone but themselves that they assumed that anyone meant any wizard. I asked them which they thought should take precedence, my Healer’s Oath or the Statute of Secrecy. Of course I knew perfectly well what they thought, but they couldn’t very well say it. They said they would have some words with the head of my department at the hospital.

“When my boss called me in for a chat, I was half expecting a dismissal, but I soon realized that, since like you I was good at what I did, they did not want to lose me. I also realized that they knew that if they let me go I would make the whole thing public, and the Ministry did not want a public debate started about the limits of the Healer’s Oath. The less I had to lose, the more of a loose cannon I was likely to become, and I believe this influenced them to offer me a compromise.

“I was permitted to use my healing arts on members of my family, but if I ever used them on anyone who did not already know I was a wizard, and the Ministry found out about it, it would be the end of my career as a Healer. An interesting condition, _if the Ministry found out about it_. Since I was in Potion and Plant Poisoning, I knew a lot about potions and plants, and it is much harder for the Ministry to track the making and administration of potions than the use of a wand. Occasionally someone in my family would refer someone to me for help, and we would pretend that I was an herbalist who had learned the practice from indigenous healers in some far-off country, which was believable enough, since there are many indigenous Muggle healing traditions that have not been incorporated into mainstream Muggle medicine. So for a time I skated along, though perhaps on thin ice.

“Then there came a day when Lucius Malfoy, who was a big philanthropic donor to the hospital, tried to stipulate that no money from his donations should ever be used to buy the Wolfsbane Potion. We had a hard time getting enough of it in those days anyway, because it was expensive and the Ministry did not pay for it. I argued to the hospital administration that it was ridiculous that a non-medical person should try to micromanage what was done with his donations, especially if it meant denying treatment to certain patients. In that case they agreed with me. Malfoy made a fruitless effort to get me sacked by bringing up my past violations of the Wizarding Statute of Secrecy. But a year and a half later, when I was sacked for being a Muggle-born wizard, no one at the hospital tried to defend me.” He spoke the last sentence with bitterness.

“Could they look you in the eye when you came back?” she asked.

“No love lost there,” he said, still in a bitter tone. “My interest was in my patients. I was needed more than ever.”

“It was the same at the Ministry,” she said sadly. “Most wizards with Blood Status did nothing to protect those without it. The friend I mentioned, the one who enchanted the cars, was an exception. He was there until the end, and never stopped subverting the Death Eaters. He was in the Order of the Phoenix and recruited me to it.”

“You were in the Order of the Phoenix?” said Gillyfeld respectfully. “Then I guess I owe you my freedom.”

“I joined up late, and was still in training at the time of the last battle, though everyone was called up at the end. I wasn’t able to get in on most of the fighting.”

“You sound as if you wanted to get in on the fighting.”

“I did. It was better than sitting there helplessly watching the destruction of the innocent.”

“So you didn’t take your view of combat from Jimmy’s father?”

“The Order of the Phoenix was different. It wasn’t directed by a corrupt government, which the Ministry always had been, or led by self-serving officers.”

“Well, better you than me. I was never any good at casting hexes, let alone curses. My magic is of the healing kind.”

“How pure. Supposing you were cornered by Death Eaters?”

“I was cornered by Death Eaters, and resistance would have meant my certain death. I was taken to Azkaban.”

“Oh,” she said, and her face fell again. “I’m sorry. How stupid of me.”

“It’s alright. I came out of it in surprisingly good shape.” Seeing she still looked ashamed, he said, “You must be very brave. I still think the hat got you wrong.”

"I don’t think so. Haven't you noticed that I use any means to achieve my ends?"

"No,” he said in surprise. “What do you mean?"

"How about lying to the Ministry to get them to use a Muggle car that was enchanted illegally by a member of their own law enforcement team? Or pretending I needed a Healer to help me in my work so that I could have the company of a charming guy for the afternoon?"

This sounded enough like a hint even to someone who usually missed them. This time he stood up and did take both of her hands and looked into her eyes.

"Did I hear you right?" he said.

"Yes."

He pulled her up to standing and kissed her. She returned the kiss, sweetly, but then said, "I think this is enough for today."

"But you do want to see me again?"

"Yes, very much."

"Soon?" he said hopefully.

"I'll tell you what. When your owl looks like it's getting really bored and you have no business for it that's more urgent, send it to me with a suggestion for our next engagement."

He laughed and kissed her again, and then, lest it become increasingly difficult to break away, reached for his jacket and with a hasty "Goodbye," slipped out the door. But as he started to walk away down the street, he heard "Bye, Steve!" and turned to see her waving at him from a little balcony.

"Bye!" he said, and blew her another kiss, but she had already turned back into her flat.

He continued down the street in high spirits. Could it be that he had finally met a witch who was as much of a misfit as he was and felt as little need to hide it? They seemed to have so much in common. He had never felt this type of kinship with anyone so quickly before, and thought perhaps this time would be different from the ones that had not lasted...and the tender compassion he had seen in her...if she would handle a Jarvey that way, it was quite pleasant to imagine what she might do for a charming guy, and one who would reciprocate all that...

He could reflect on the first part of his day with as much satisfaction. He had confidence in Granger. The Ministry really had changed since the war, if someone like her could attain such a powerful position, and judging from the policy changes that had already been made. He had always been unhappy with the governance of the world he lived in, but had hoped for better things, and better things seemed to be arriving. Everything was coming up roses for Steve Gillyfeld, but this was natural enough, since he was by nature an optimist.


	6. Werewolf Alley

_Wednesday, October 19, 2005 – Waning Gibbous_

Hermione paid a visit to the Den that same evening. She expected there would be fewer people there than at the time of her previous visit, since werewolves who were living in mainstream Wizarding society were less likely to be there, but it was the ones who did still hang around there to whom she was particularly interested in reaching out. She had not had much difficulty in convincing Goyle to agree to the change in the voucher policy that Gillyfeld had recommended, since the logic of it was pretty clear, and he was still leaving her in charge of everything concerning werewolves. She was more surprised that he agreed to a suggestion from her that they try making werewolf registration voluntary, but Goyle knew that effectively it had been voluntary for a long time anyway, since the Ministry had never succeeded in keeping track of every werewolf in the manner originally intended, and had stopped trying long before Hermione had joined the department.

Darkness had already fallen as she walked down Knockturn Alley, which was as lively by night as it was by day, which meant that now it was not lively at all. The businesses on the alley had been hit particularly hard by the post-war recession, since the Wizarding World had mostly turned against Dark Magic after having seen the worst of what it could lead to, and its remaining patrons were tending to keep a low profile. There were no streetlights here, so she illuminated her wand, and its lonely light seemed to cast sinister shadows as she walked past many boarded-up and empty storefronts, some that seemed to have shadows moving within them. From one she saw a black-clad older witch with few teeth staring out at her with interest. The witch beckoned, but feeling she had no time to spare, Hermione turned away, and she heard a cackle follow.

She remembered where to find the gap between two storefronts where a tiny dirt path led to a brick building behind the stores. On the other side of this building a little stone staircase led to a cellar entrance with an old oak door. Hermione descended the steps and lifted the wrought-iron knocker, and half a minute later the door was opened by a pale middle-aged man who at first looked at her in shocked surprise, but then with recognition, and allowed her to enter but did not greet her, returning to his seat at a table where he was playing cards with three others.

When she entered the large, low-ceilinged, dimly-lit room, she saw as she expected that there were fewer people there than there had been when she had visited the place a few years earlier. The proprietor was behind a bar as usual, four men were sitting at a small table playing cards, and an older man, whom she remembered from the earlier time, was sitting with his feet up on another small table, examining the contents of a whiskey glass that he was holding up to the light.

“Hello,” she said to all of them. “I don’t know whether you know me. I’m Hermione Granger from the Ministry of Magic.”

The older werewolf sprang to his feet with mock chivalry. “John Trackless, esquire, of Werewolf Alley.” She looked unfazed, so he sat down again.

“I’ve recently become head of the Beings Division, and I want to let you know about some changes there, and also to hear your concerns.”

"She's a friend of Remus Lupin," she heard the man who had let her in say quietly to the other card payers.

"Does that mean she's come to spy on us?" said another.

“I won’t hear a word against Remus Lupin,” said a third voice.

“Why not?” said the second man who had spoken. “He only pretended to be one of us. He was a spy for Dumbledore. That’s the only reason he ever set foot in here.”

“He had no choice but to be one of us, whether he ever set foot in here or not, Reilly,” said Trackless. “We each became one of us on the night we were bitten.”

“He did have a choice we didn’t have,” said Reilly. “Dumbledore showed him special favor for some reason.”

Hermione thought she saw an opening here. “Remus was one of you and one of us. He chose to join the fight against Voldemort, and any of you would have been treated the same way if you had chosen to join us.”

“That is what Lupin always said,” said Trackless, looking at her thoughtfully. “He was trying to recruit us. Why was he so loyal to Dumbledore, after Dumbledore had used him as a teacher for a year and then thrown him away?”

“That’s a complicated story. Dumbledore wasn’t to blame. Anyway, there was a lot more at stake in the war than personal loyalty. You see that now, don't you?”

“For social outcasts who aren’t rewarded for playing by the rules, nothing is more important than personal loyalty.”

“But that's exactly what you’re being offered now—fairer rules, and the chance to be rewarded like anyone else. What I meant was, we were the ones fighting for that.”

“You sound like Lupin again. You must have been schooled by the same people. Why should werewolves trust any government? How do we know you haven’t just come up with a more sophisticated way to capture and control us, by getting us to voluntarily turn ourselves in so you can slowly poison us to death? Isn’t that potion you’re trying to feed us made with wolfsbane?”

_So Gillyfeld had guessed right, and the educational outreach on the potion had been inadequate._ “The Wolfsbane Potion isn’t poisonous. It also has lunasturtia, the werewolf flower, which counteracts the toxicity of wolfsbane. Taking the potion makes the transformation less violent, so it is actually easier on the body than not taking it. The clinical trial showed it was safe and effective. Many werewolves volunteered and were satisfied with the results.”

“And many were not so foolish as to volunteer to be poisoned.”

“The Healer in charge of the trial, who was not a werewolf, was the first to volunteer,” said Hermione with some exasperation. “He took it for weeks himself.”

“Will he be taking it for a week out of every month for the rest of his life, as we are being asked to do?”

“If you really don’t want to take the potion, you can go to a safe place before your transformation, if you let others know where you will be. Nobody is forcing anyone to do anything. Morden Forest is an area designated for werewolves at full moon now, and some werewolves still go there. But we need to gather the lunasturtia from somewhere. We can’t have another incident like the last one. I came to distribute some information, but also to pick some up if it’s available. Do you happen to know, or have an opinion you’re willing to share, about whether the werewolf who attacked my people didn’t know about the harvest? Whether it was an accident?”

“Maybe an accident, maybe not. Other people have rejected and excluded werewolves for hundreds of years, and thought nothing of killing us. Did you expect there’d be no payback?”

“Human society has paid the price all along for its treatment of werewolves. Hasn’t there been enough payback? Can’t we call a truce, and move on? What does any werewolf have to gain by continuing to endanger himself and us?”

“What is the name of your department at the Ministry?”

“The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“And you expect us to believe that your purpose is not to control us, but to assist us? The people you fought wanted to give us more freedom to hunt and increase our numbers. Greyback said we would gain power that way, and some of his followers are saying that again. Lupin said they were using us and would kill us all. How can we werewolves possibly tell which of you are lying to us?”

_How can he possibly_ not _tell_ , wondered Hermione, for she could tell that Trackless was an intelligent man.

“Our purpose is to provide the services you need to live in the society you complain has excluded you. Now I have some notices to post. Is it OK if I stick some notices to the walls?”

“Better ask Finnegan," said Trackless, indicating the man behind the bar.

She walked over to the bar and addressed herself to the man behind it.

"I have some notices from my department at the Ministry which are of interest to -- to werewolves. Would I be permitted to post them to the walls?"

"May I see them?" asked Finnegan.

"Of course," she said.

He read the notices and nodded, catching her eye as he looked up, and she thought there was some curiosity in his glance as he returned them to her. She walked to a part of the side wall closer to the middle of the room and reread the notice she had written that morning before securing it there with a sticking charm. It read:

NOTICE FROM THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

October 19, 2005

> In order to protect the privacy of persons suffering from lycanthropy, such persons need no longer report to the Ministry to obtain a voucher for a free lifetime supply of Wolfsbane Potion. The voucher may be obtained at St. Mungo’s Hospital or from a qualified Healer upon presentation of a werewolf bite.
> 
> Also take notice that the Werewolf Registry at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is voluntary, and persons suffering from lycanthropy are encouraged but not required to register. Those who register will be contacted by the Department whenever we have announcements or information that we think may be of service to you.

Next to this she posted the notice offering the reward for information about the werewolf flower. Then she noticed a table near the back of the room that looked as if it had some papers and magazines on it. She approached it curiously, glancing back at the werewolves to see whether they were watching her. The card players were still intent on their game. Trackless was still sitting with his feet up but was eyeing the notices she had posted as if he could read them from fifteen feet away. When she reached the table she was startled to see that one of the papers had a picture of Fenrir Greyback on it. She picked it up and saw it was some kind of tract, and read the following words underneath the picture:

**_THE WEREWOLVES WILL NOT BE DEFANGED_ **

> The post-war government tries to tell us they are friendlier to werewolves. Why was Fenrir Greyback, who didn't even have the Dark Mark, one of the only Death Eaters executed after the war, while members of Voldemort's inner circle got off with light sentences? Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Only the new Ministry has come up with a more cunning and sophisticated plan to destroy us.
> 
> Don't be fooled by a witch. Hermione Granger has hidden werewolf killing and capture under another name and called on werewolves to go to school and take jobs on the condition that we regularly drink a potion made with werewolf-killing wolfsbane. Behind a smiling face, the government hopes to get us to turn ourselves in and poison ourselves. How much easier and more efficient than traditional werewolf capture!
> 
> But their very means of deceit and their confidence in their cleverness will be their undoing. Their old werewolf killers are out of practice, and new ones are no longer being trained. They have relaxed their old ways in the hope of fooling us, and they believe it's working. What better time to strike? They go to Beerden at the full moon to gather an ingredient for the potion, which only grows there and in Morden. The minions who harvest the ingredients are part of this plot and should be dealt with accordingly. The harvest is a great opportunity for us to strike back. But werewolves should take any opportunity to attack wizards and increase our numbers. Werewolf brothers, take back our forests!
> 
> _GREYBACK WAS RIGHT! AVENGE GREYBACK! DON'T DRINK THE POISON!_

She had hardly digested this when her eye was caught by something on the table that seemed to be moving. She looked over and saw some magazines that had moving pictures on them. Looking at the top one, she saw the page was covered with a continuously moving picture sequence, and when she saw what it depicted, she was aghast. Werewolves were chasing naked women through a forest, and when they reached them, their attacks, which included sexual ones as well as biting and tearing them to pieces, were shown in graphic detail. A glance through the other magazines showed they were filled with similar material, and squeals or cries for mercy from the women were met with ferocity.

Hermione was gripped with a feeling she remembered from the day she had sat in disguise at a meeting of The Muggle-born Registration Commission: the feeling that she was staring straight into the face of evil. This was exactly what she had spent most of her career trying to persuade people werewolves were not like. She knew, was positively sure, that most of them were not. She found herself hoping for the first time that Arthur was right—that perhaps this material was being fed to them by former Death Eaters or wizards of that sort. She remembered something Lupin had once told her during the war when he saw her turn white at the rumor that butchers were selling Muggle meat on Knockturn Alley: _there are witches and wizards who will sell anything to make a Galleon, without inquiring where it comes from._ Pornographers were in the business of making money, and who would be more in need of quick money than a werewolf? She started to breathe a little easier again, but still with her hand on her stomach, she glanced over at the werewolves, most of whom were now congregated around the notice she had posted about the new privacy policy.

“I think there’s another place you might want to post that notice, Miss Granger,” said Trackless, and she was taken by surprise at being addressed so politely by him.

“Where?”

"About a hundred meters to the left down the alley from which you entered this establishment, on the same side as this building, you will find the Werewolf Clinic. We have a few healers of our own, and werewolves sometimes go there for free health care or group meetings. It’s open this evening.”

_So they have their own support services_ , she thought, _perhaps another reason they shun my department_. Why did no one ever tell her about this? Lupin—but he didn’t know she was going to pursue a career working with werewolves, and probably hardly anyone but the werewolves knew about it, maybe no one. Gillyfeld must not have known, or he certainly would have told her. It appeared to her that now she was penetrating farther into their world than he had.

"Thank you," she said to Trackless. "Thank you all. Remember you are all very welcome at Werewolf Support Services, though you will no longer need to go there for a potion voucher. We offer help with job placement and legal counseling." She turned toward the door to make her exit, but paused as a man came in and walked over to the bar. As she walked toward the door she overheard his conversation with Finnegan.

"Did you get the stuff I asked for?" said the man.

Finnegan put a bottle on the table, and the other man put down something shiny that she could see must be a golden Galleon.

"You're really rolling in it these days, aren't you, Mercer?" said Finnegan.

"Who'd you rob this time, Mercer?" said Reilly.

"Never ask where a werewolf gets his gold," said Mercer.

Hermione thought about this conversation as she walked out the door. Closing it behind her, she was in darkness again, and she carefully made her way up the steps and took out her wand.

" _Lumos!_ "

To the right of her was the end of the tiny path that led to Knockturn Alley, the way she had come. To the left of her she noticed she was on the edge of a broader dirt path that ran parallel to the building and to the alley, her view of which disappeared quickly into darkness outside her illuminated circle. _The alley from which you entered this establishment_...had Trackless been referring to Knockturn Alley or to this dirt one? She had not entered the Den from Knockturn Alley, but from here, and she had never seen or heard of a Werewolf Clinic on Knockturn Alley...left on Knockturn would be the way she had already come, and she had barely come a hundred meters, if that...for a moment she thought of going back and asking Trackless for better directions, but she sensed that he was capricious, and that for her to enter again would be pushing their limited tolerance for intrusion.

She turned to face across the dirt alley and raised her wand higher, then turned to the left, which would also have been left from the doorway when facing out of the Den, and walked a little farther onto this path. On the right side of it she saw nothing but darkness and overgrown vegetation, and she supposed this was a barrier to the Muggle city. On the left were the dark faces of other buildings, or perhaps the backs of some that fronted on Knockturn Alley. The air was dank and unpleasant. She made her way slowly, carefully scanning the buildings on the left, where there were some doorways. She looked ahead and tried to estimate a hundred meters, when her attention was brought near again by a large rat crossing the path in front of her and slipping through a hole at the base of a building.

She wondered whether people actually lived here, and if so whether there was anything she could do to help them. Was this the area where Lupin had lived when he was spying on the werewolves? It occurred to her that anyone living so close to Knockturn Alley might be dabbling in Dark Magic or criminal activities and be hostile to her interference. Government had a very different meaning for some people than it did for her...this thought brought the pro-Greyback tract to her mind. She hoped it was the last gasp of the defeated, for with opposition that ridiculous, surely her side would win the battle of ideas. But then she thought of the pornography, the recent attack, the frightened public and the press that played to their short-sightedness...she must carry her light through that darkness...

Her heart jumped with relief when she saw a doorway with the face of a wolf painted on it, for she had gone about a hundred meters, and she felt sure this was it. Like the door to the Den, it was at the bottom of a short flight of stairs, a cellar entrance. Perhaps werewolves were most comfortable underground because for so long they had been unwelcome in so many above ground places.

She descended the steps and rapped on the door as loudly as she could, since there was no knocker. "Come in, come in," said a voice and she opened the door and walked through a short passageway and into a room where a man sitting behind a desk stared at her in astonishment. She thought he had a bit of the prematurely aged look that was common for werewolves: older in suffering than in years.

"Miss Granger?" he said.

Since she was a public figure, Hermione was used to being recognized by people she did not know.

"Good evening," she said. "Is this the Werewolf Clinic?"

She saw hesitation in his face, and thought she should lose no time in explaining how she had found the place.

"My department at the Ministry has some important news regarding some changes in how we interact with -- people with lycanthropy, hopefully to better serve them. I just came from posting some notices in the Den, and Mr. Trackless told me about this place and suggested I post them here as well."

At the mention of Trackless the man looked astonished again. "May I see your notices?" he said.

"Of course," she said, and she took another copy of each of her notices from her bag and handed them to him. She could see that he read them with great interest.

"May I also have a copy of this?" he said, holding up the one about the privacy policy.

"As many as you like," she said eagerly. "I have several copies, and can make more."

"So can we," he said. "One will do. Go ahead and post them on the board over there." He pointed to a bulletin board on the wall behind her.

She turned in the direction he had pointed, and her eye was immediately caught by a large, beautiful watercolor painting of a werewolf in his wolf state with the moon above his shoulder, and just beneath it she saw that one of her "A Werewolf Is A Human Being" pamphlets had been stuck upside down, she suspected with ironic intent. On a table beneath the board was a hot water tank hovering above a little flaming burner, and next to that some boxes of tea and some cups. Also on the table was a rack with some pamphlets in it, including her own and some others, which she stepped closer to read. On the cover of one she read:

WITHOUT THE POTION: STRATEGIES FOR HARM REDUCTION

And another:

HELP FOR WEREWOLVES INJURED IN THEIR WOLF STATE

She wanted to take one of each, but thought she'd better ask first. She turned to the man at the desk again.

"I see you have some specialized health information here that they may not have at St. Mungo's. Would you be interested in sharing any of it with the hospital, or with Werewolf Support Services? It might improve our services if we could refer people to yours as well. I want our clients to feel more at home at WSS."

The man looked alarmed. "I'm afraid that's not possible, ma'am. This information is strictly confidential among werewolves. Please do not discuss it or our services with anyone else at the Ministry. Please post your notices." _And be gone_ , his eyes said. "I hope you can understand that."

"Yes, of course," she said, hiding her disappointment. She turned back to the crowded board, looking for empty spaces where her notices would fit. She found one high up and quite far to the side and stuck the reward offer there, saving a more central, lower location for the one on the privacy policy. As she attached the latter she noticed a card beneath it with the following announcement hand-written on it:

_9:00_

_meeting for wolves concerned about_

_how the new porn is affecting them_

_The new porn_. She suddenly wished that she had Harry’s invisibility cloak and could spy on this meeting, though as an adult she would not have done so anyway. She felt a pang of nostalgia for her Hogwarts days, when the three of them had been in it together, whatever it was. One thing had not changed: _The Daily Prophet_ had been after her even then. She said goodbye to the man at the desk and made her way to the door and back to what Trackless had called the alley.

There was now some light from the waning gibbous moon, which had risen above the trees that were behind the scrub on the far side of the path. She found the sight of the almost full moon reassuring because of the time it suggested she had left in the month, considering what she had already accomplished in a day. Since she knew where she was going and was ready to call it a day, she Apparated back to her flat. But she might well have wished for Harry’s cloak, for had she been able to hear the conversation in the Werewolf Clinic meeting room, it would have interested her a great deal.

The clinic volunteer who had been at the desk opened the meeting room door, and soon two young men and an older one came in and sat down.

“Do you think we should leave the door open, in case anyone else shows up?” said one of the new arrivals.

“I don’t think that would give us enough privacy,” said the volunteer. “If anyone comes late they can knock on the door.” He sat down himself with a copy of Hermione’s notice in his hand. "It's good to see you all here," he said. "I think we've all met, but would you mind introducing yourselves by first name? I'm Will."

"Last names in the Den, first names here?" said the older man, who looked unkempt and whose grey hair was in a ponytail.

"Always," said Will.

"I'm Dave," said a dark-haired young man with a handsome face.

"Izzy," said the other young man, who had rather large nose and frizzy hair.

"Fred," said the older man.

"Before we start, I have some interesting news," said Will. "Hermione Granger, head of Werewolf Support Services at the Ministry, came in here to post a notice."

"Haven't you heard?" said Izzy. "She's head of the Beings Division now."

"You're kidding," said Will.

"She's a wonder kid," said Izzy. "She was one of Harry Potter's trio."

"The stakes get higher," said Dave.

"Shall I read it aloud?" said Will. "I think it's of interest to all of us."

"Go ahead," said Fred.

Will read Hermione's notice aloud, and the others listened attentively, though there was some laughter at the phrase "persons suffering from lycanthropy."

"It sounds like they're trying to be inoffensive," he added.

"Maybe they should say persons _with_ lycanthropy," said Izzy. "Maybe they shouldn't assume we're all suffering."

"I am suffering," said Dave, putting his head in his hands.

"What's going on, Dave?" said Will.

"My girlfriend may not stay with me. You see, I've been getting off on this crap, and I'm afraid to have sex now, because when I get aroused these images come into my head, and I'm afraid I might get violent. I've never heard of a werewolf having a lapse like that in his human state, but I'm afraid. We were sleeping together, and I tell her I can't now, and the thing that upsets her is I won't tell her why. She asked if it has something to do with my lycanthropy, and I said yes, and she says I don't appreciate how understanding she's always been about my lycanthropy."

"But you feel you can't tell her?" said Will.

"She sounds like a bitch," said Fred. "She thinks she's done you a big favor by going out with you."

"We try not to use that kind of language here," said Will.

Fred shrugged. "As if there'd ever be any women here," he mumbled.

"Granger came here to post the notice," said Will. "She hasn't changed her mind."

"That's the thing," said Dave. "It isn't just about me. What will people think about the werewolves altogether if they see this stuff? They might change their minds. It might be a setback to the gains we're starting to make."

"People have probably seen it already," said Izzy.

"That's right," said Fred. "It started appearing toward the end of the war. Even then, werewolf porn wasn't anything new, but this is more magically advanced and more addictive."

"It seems suspicious to me," said Izzy.

"What do you mean?" said Fred sharply, and the others looked a little surprised at the defensiveness in his tone.

"I mean like you say, that the old porn used to be flat, like Muggle magazines, or at most moving in a single frame, like regular wizard photographs. I don't know what werewolves have the money or the means to make this beautiful stuff. I mean that I heard that Mercer didn't go to Morden this month like he always does, and that since the moon he's been throwing gold around like you wouldn't believe."

"Never ask where a werewolf gets his gold," said Fred, quoting an old werewolf saying.

"Never ask this, never ask that," said Izzy. "Where has that culture ever gotten us?"

"How about our sanity and survival?" said Fred. "I guess you young ones can't be expected to understand."

Will was looking at Fred thoughtfully. "We've heard from Dave. Would the rest of us like to share what in particular brought us here?"

"What do you think," said Izzy. "I'm drawn to it too, and in my more rational moments I think it's sick."

"Same here," said Will.

"I didn't know you had anything but rational moments, Iz," said Dave, smiling. "Haven't you taken the potion every month since you were bitten?"

"Well, in my case I think it may come from a repressed desire for revenge."

"It makes sense that it would be repressed in your case, since you went to Hogwarts and have been working ever since, and taking the potion, and you've probably still gotten shit," said Will.

"I've been working since I was a teenager, and never at the job I wanted," said Izzy. "I wanted to be a Trainee Healer in Creature Induced, and I explained that I could be available any night except the full moon, when I always take Wolfsbane. They said that wouldn't work with their rotation schedule, that I had to be available any night I was needed. They generously hired me as a sales clerk in the hospital apothecary."

"That would be illegal now," said Will.

"Supposedly," said Izzy.

"Why don't you apply in Potion and Plant Poisoning? I bet Dr. Steve would hire you in a heartbeat," said Dave, referring to Gillyfeld by a nickname he had acquired when treating other Muggle-born Azkaban survivors in the aftermath of the war.

"I don't think it's up to him," said Izzy. "They said it was hospital policy. But I have to give credit to Dr. Steve. He gave my story, without naming me, as an example to get the Anti-Discrimination Act passed. He said the same thing had happened to more than one clever werewolf who wanted to do nothing but good. I was afraid I might get him in trouble with the hospital if he went against their policy. He was always getting in trouble with the administration."

"Not too much to become a Healer-in-Charge," said Will. "So you felt you had to take the counter job? No wonder you're angry."

"You've still done better than me, flipping bloody burgers at the Leaky Cauldron," said Dave.

"I don't know how you can stand it," said Fred. "Illegal activities pay better."

"I'm not sure I can stand it much longer. I have a co-worker who thinks he's really witty. When I break for something to eat he says 'One werewolf burger, coming right up,' or 'You'll really like this one Dave, we put some witch meat in it.' At least he doesn't say it in hearing of the customers. But it was worth being straight to have a girlfriend. If I lose that, I just might lose my mind."

"It would be too bad to lose a relationship for fear of communicating," said Will. "Sometimes if you're honest, the reactions of people close to you may surprise you."

"I feel this is something I don't want any non-werewolves to know about," said Dave. "It confirms the worst things they always said about us."

"I wouldn't expect understanding from people who aren't my own kind," said Fred.

"If you mean werewolves, that would exclude women," said Will.

"That way of thinking is likely to keep us segregated," said Izzy. "But I understand your feelings."

There was a pause, and Will looked questioningly at Fred.

"Needed quick money," said Fred, "and someone approached me with something to sell. But I started buying it myself, more than I could pay for, so I had to sell more. It happened so fast. I need to break the cycle. I don't want to sell this shit anyway. It's worse than selling potions."

"It is pretty addictive," agreed Will. "You deserve credit for backing out."

"Trying to," said Fred.

"Who gave it to you to sell?" said Izzy.

"I'm not a snitch," said Fred angrily. "You young ones don't get it, do you? I could get murdered."

"I forgot to mention at the beginning, but I thought you all knew, that anything said in this room is not to be repeated outside it," said Will.

"I think I get it," said Izzy. "I think someone else wants to kill us, and it isn't a werewolf."

"What is it you suspect, Izzy?" said Will.

"The Dark side. The current Ministry's political enemies. Not many Death Eaters got the wages of a werewolf," said Izzy, referring to Greyback's execution. "A lot of them are still around. I think they're trying to manipulate us."

"It could be," said Will. "Maybe everything Remus Lupin said was true. He was a better man than Greyback, that's for sure."

"He was right about who our enemies were," said Izzy. "The Death Eaters were manipulating the werewolves then, weren't they? Greyback was one of them. Now Greyback propaganda appears again, and he's not even around. There's a mysterious attack on the lunasturtia harvest. Who is it who's so opposed to werewolf integration? Who hates the current government the most?"

"Are you suggesting some rich pure-blood snob paid Mercer to go to Beerden the other night?" said Dave.

"I'm suggesting that's who's behind it. They might use intermediaries," said Izzy.

"Would those people risk imprisonment again?" said Will.

"Not if they get werewolves to do their dirty work," said Izzy grimly. "People in the Den wouldn't listen to me, since I was never a regular there. But you..." He looked at Will and Fred.

"You may know more than I do about aboveground politics, but you have no idea about life in the underworld," said Fred. "If what you are saying is true, any of us would probably be murdered if they found out that we knew. The lives of werewolves have always been cheap. Can we get back to the subject of this meeting? It was meant to be a support group, not a political one."

"Fred has a point. We are getting off-topic. I sense, from what has already been said, that we all would rather give the porn a wide berth. This may be more of a challenge for anyone who hangs around in the Den. How can we best support each other in this?" said Will.

"How about a boycott?" said Izzy. "Is there any chance Finnegan would come on board if he sees it's not good for his business?"

"One of his keys to success was always his tolerance," said Fred. "The Den was always a place for what was contraband elsewhere. It's like with the potions. Werewolves react badly to being told what to do. We can't control anyone but ourselves, but we can tell others how we feel about it in our own case, and encourage anyone who has similar feelings."

"Was there never a potion that was so bad that werewolves tried to ban it from the Den?" said Izzy.

"Now that you mention it," said Fred, recollecting, "the black valerian-offerage draft was so addictive, and was harming so many people, that we agreed to try to get rid of it. Anyone selling it in the Den was given the cold shoulder, so they went elsewhere. That's the only case like that I remember."

"Werewolves hate being ostracized by their own as much as they hate being told what to do," said Will.

"In that case they could see the damage directly," said Fred. "There were some overdose deaths."

"If the government changes and our legal gains are reversed, they'll see the damage directly, but it will be too late," said Izzy grimly.

"What gains?" said Fred. "Most werewolves haven't seen much change. Look where you are yourself. Anyway, that's a separate issue. There's always been werewolf porn regardless of politics."

"I don't believe it is a separate issue," said Izzy. "I think it's as dangerous not to recognize the truth as you think it's dangerous to name it."

"I want to be sure everyone feels supported as far as our own behavior," said Will, though he had been looking at Izzy with heightened interest during this exchange. "This place is open every evening Sunday through Thursday from four PM to midnight, though we're currently looking for someone to fill the Tuesday four to eight shift, and we're closed on the full moon. Any of you are welcome to contact me for support at any time. Does anyone else want to share contact information? No pressure on that."

"I will," said Dave, and Will passed him a quill and a piece of paper. "If I'm either dumped or sacked, I'd like to volunteer here. It might save my life. But I don't feel I have time for the training right now."

"Saved mine," said Will.

"I'm here on Sunday and Thursday evenings," said Izzy. "I haven't given up hope of becoming a Healer at the hospital, and working here is better experience than many Trainee Healer applicants have ever had. But I might as well forget my ambition if what happened at the last moon happens again." He also wrote down his contact information, and passed the paper to Fred, who declined.

"I will try raising your concerns in the Den, without naming any names," said Will to Izzy. "I agree with you about what's at stake."

"I wouldn't try to be the next Remus Lupin if you value your life," said Fred.

"You need not be implicated. Shall we meet again in a month?" said Will.

"For personal help, or for a political meeting?" grumbled Fred.

"For personal help," said Will. "A political meeting would need to be in another venue. As for this group, please let anyone else know who may be interested. See you in a month, same moon, same room?"

"Maybe," said Fred, and rose to leave.

"Thanks for facilitating this," said Dave, also rising. "If I don't come again, you'll know I'm doing better."

"Thanks, Will," said Izzy. "See you soon." The two younger men followed Fred out the door of the meeting room, and were soon followed by Will, who closed the door and returned to the desk.

"When will werewolves realize that for us, the personal is political?" muttered Izzy to Dave as they walked out the street door.


	7. Hermione's Research

_Saturday October 22 - Sunday October 23, 2005 -- Waning Gibbous_

As she expected, Hermione did not find time to visit the Hogwarts library until Saturday. She had written in advance for permission from Madame Pince, who had given her the welcome news that she was likely to have the place to herself because there was a big Quidditch match that day and most of the students would be down at the pitch. There had been Saturdays in her student days when she had been the only one in the library for that reason, and she wondered whether there was not a student like her in every generation or whether she had been unique in the history of the school.

This time she traveled by broom since Harry was out and she didn't much want to talk to any of the other staff members. The weather was fair and her journey pleasant. As she descended over the castle grounds, she chose a spot by the corner of one of the towers where she could land unobtrusively, and having done so, quietly walked around to the front entrance, where the few youngsters walking out into the sunshine from the dark hall did not notice her. Passing through the great oak doors, she tried to keep her thoughts in the present as she traversed this scene of so many intense memories. She could see from the contents of the hourglasses that Hufflepuff was ahead in the point count, and she thought of the Potions master, John Brewster, who had joined the staff after the war and was now head of that house and a friend of Harry's. Brewster loved his job and there was no longer a student at the school who could remember having a scary Potions master. Gryffindor, of which Harry was now head, looked to be tied with Ravenclaw for second place, with Slytherin last. Slytherin had struggled since the war from its association with the losing side, but she imagined it would yet make a comeback, as it seemed that the four house system was an eternal fixture of the Wizarding World.

The broom closet still opened to a spell she knew, and she left her broom there and mounted the marble staircase to the first floor, where she realized she needed to sit down for a bit, and found an empty classroom where she was able to do so. She had carried a flask of tea in her bag, and after this refreshment she found a fast staircase and reached the library ready to get to work.

She decided to start with material on werewolves, rather than in the botanical section, because she believed that if any earlier herbologist had described lunasturtia that the plant would have been named earlier and that Belby would have found that information himself. If any earlier account of the plant existed, she believed it was most likely by a werewolf. She also wanted to look for any accounts she could find of female werewolves and of cases where women who disappeared were thought to have been killed by werewolves. There was more werewolf material, including historical material, in the Magical Creatures section than in the Dark Arts section, so she made her way to the former area first.

When she reached the shelves with books about werewolves, her eye fell first on the tattered old copy of the anonymous memoir _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ that she had secretly devoured one weekend in her third year when she alone among her friends had figured out that the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher they all liked was a werewolf. This moving piece had raised her consciousness about the need for progress in the social integration of werewolves, as had Remus Lupin's life story, some of which she was to learn a few months later. Most of the other werewolf material she had already read while preparing for and pursuing her career in Werewolf Support Services, so she scanned the shelves for any books that looked new or unfamiliar to her.

She pulled out one entitled _Essays on Lycanthropy,_ which she found was a recent collection of scholarly work on the subject. A glance at the table of contents showed they were diverse. The first was a piece about lycanthropy in the Middle Ages, which she thought might be fruitful, so she sat down to read it at a nearby table. As she expected, the quoted source material included two accounts of female werewolves among many more accounts of male ones, but the surrounding text only referred to werewolves using male pronouns, and the author did not discuss the fact that he apparently was presenting evidence that any of them had been female.

Hermione realized she was facing one problem layered on top of another: most wizard scholarship was still written in very male language, so even if the material researched or discussed included female subjects, the authors often left them out of the discussion and generalized only from the experience of wizards. She looked up witches in the index, which led her to a piece on Muggle werewolf trials during the era of Muggle witchcraft persecution. In those times accusations were brought against certain supposed witches that they had used hexes to induce lycanthropy in certain men. The author asserted that this was Muggle superstition; no such spells were known to wizards and lycanthropy could only be the result of a werewolf bite.

She looked for the earliest historical material she could find in other books, but it was only what she had seen before, with the conclusion that the existence of female werewolves in antiquity was unproven. Perhaps some clue lay closer to the present, from the time accounts of female werewolves ended completely, or from the stories of those disappeared witches in modern times who were thought to have been killed and eaten by werewolves. From what she had seen of the historical record, she believed the disappearance of any evidence of female werewolves dated to the turbulent early modern era, which saw the height of witchcraft persecution by Muggles. In this era there had been an increase in werewolf attacks and in the perceived dangerousness of werewolves, leading to an effort by wizards to bring them under control with the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct.

She turned to a volume she had read in her last year of school when preparing for her career at the Ministry. _The Werewolf and the Wizard in Britain: Medieval Times to the Present_ was a book that chronicled the evolution of the legal and social treatment of werewolves in Wizarding Britain. It described how before the twentieth century werewolves who killed people in their wolf state were often put on trial and executed, but later the practice came to be seen as cruel and backward and became increasingly infrequent. There was controversy that continued to the present day about how and how much wizards could or should control werewolves, and Newt Scamander's creation of the Werewolf Register in 1947, which was originally used to monitor the full moon location and activity of werewolves, was seen as a breakthrough that would put an end to the need for executions. Yet whenever there were werewolf incidents seen as particularly heinous on the part of the werewolf, particularly if the victims were women or children, some people would call for them again.

Many of the alleged werewolf attacks on women or girls had not been proven, since the remains of the supposed victims were never found. She looked through the book for accounts of these incidents, and as she remembered, it was always a case of a woman or girl having disappeared on the night of the full moon near where a werewolf lived, or had been seen the next morning, or near a werewolf haunt, in the last which case the adult victim was considered to have brought it on herself. Werewolves accused of these attacks almost always denied them, but there had been a few strange testimonies over the centuries by werewolves who claimed that their senses had been stifled by a mysterious mist and that the woman had escaped. Since in these cases the woman never reappeared, this was assumed to be a falsehood.

Hermione thought the key to her inquiry might be in these testimonies, or in any accounts by survivors of werewolf attacks that had included female victims whose remains were not found. The only example of the latter she found was a 1927 case in which a young wizard had been out with a witch friend on the full moon and had returned from a walk in the woods with the tale that he had seen the werewolf but that then his senses had been stifled by a thick fog and he had been unable to locate his companion and could only save himself. His behavior had been seen as cowardly and his story thought to be copied from the dubious werewolf testimonies.

As she was reading, Hermione wrote down the names and dates of all the witches who were thought to have died in this manner. She returned the book to the shelf and took a much needed tea break, and considered where to go next. She wondered whether she could find out more about these women and more details about the circumstances surrounding their disappearance. She considered the Dark Arts section again, but decided first she would try to look for biographical information in the place it could be found most easily: the reference section.

She looked in several biographical reference books, but only located one entry on one of the witches on her list, and it only had the same information as the other book. It did not look as if these witches had been known for anything but supposedly being killed by werewolves, which did not necessarily make them famous. Then she tried a trick that Professor Flitwick had taught her during her last year at the school. She pointed her wand straight upward and said: " _Accio poco disappeared witches!_ "

This variation on the Summoning Charm caused books with material on the named subject to be dislodged slightly outward from their position on the shelves, so the researcher could easily find them if she looked in the right area. Most Hogwarts students didn't know about this charm because it was detested by Madame Pince, since the researcher hardly ever located all the dislodged books, which might be in any part of the library, and therefore remain dislodged and give the stacks an untidy appearance. But Flitwick felt that a student as hardworking and responsible as Hermione should be able to use it, and he had told her that if Pince objected he would answer for it himself.

The first book that she could see had moved was one of those she had just consulted, a large volume with the title _Which Witch: A Biographical Dictionary of Notable Witches_. She took it to the nearest table, on which she stood it upright, and then tapped on the top side of the pages with her wand, which would cause it to open most easily at the page where the subject of the search could be found. She opened it first to the following entry:

> **Matilda Morgen (c.1600-1728, dates uncertain)**
> 
> A controversial witch who was an Animagus of uncertain species, probably reptilian. She was known for amassing an unusual store of magical knowledge, as she was interested in the research and restoration of ancient magic. Like other real witches who were so persecuted at the time, she survived being burned at the stake by Muggles in the mid-seventeenth century. From 1687-1712 she taught History of Magic at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but was eventually forced out because of objections to her unconventional subject matter, as well as accusations of dabbling in Dark Magic, fraternizing with hags, and

" _Consorting with the giant squid?_ " read Hermione aloud in surprise.

> She was last reportedly seen leaving her house in the Wizarding village of Bogweed by a neighbor in 1728, but no one could tell of her death. At the request of neighbors, Ministry workers entered her house over a year later but did not locate her, nor was her body ever found, and her large library was also missing and never recovered.

Hermione thought a bit wistfully for a moment of what it might have been like to have an interesting History of Magic class, then stood the book upright again and looked for the next place it seemed to want to open, which was at the following entry:

> **Christine Sylvester (1905-?)**
> 
> Christine Sylvester was an herbologist who in the 1930s and 40s made significant contributions to the discovery and classification of magical plants. She also wrote widely on social issues, calling for more recognition of the ancient magical knowledge of witches and arguing that evidence of the Muggle origins of humanity discredited any claim to pure Wizarding blood. She also called for an end to the Wizarding Statute of Secrecy, and in the 1940s she associated with anti-Statute activist Carlotta Pinkstone, and was arrested with her in several civil disobedience actions. In May 1947 she was placed under house arrest for one such action, and when a Ministry worker came to check on her two days later, she was nowhere to be found. It was thought that the charms surrounding her house had probably been inadequate. Sylvester was also known as "Clara" to her friends because of what they claimed was her skill at Legilimancy.

Hermione had heard of Pinkstone but not of Sylvester, and she wondered whether the latter's writings had been snubbed by most wizard scholars. She rose and replaced the book on the shelf, left the reference section and made for the Dark Arts section, where she thought it was possible that the issue of witches encountering werewolves might have been written about from some other angle.

At first glance, she was surprised to see that none of the books in the Dark Arts section appeared to have moved, but she noticed a slim volume clearly dislodged on a nearby shelf with related material about Wizarding law and crime. Pulling it out curiously, she saw the title _Escape from Azkaban_ on the cover in lettering that made it look like a novel, but a glance at the contents showed that it was a historical account, though perhaps partly fictionalized, of every escape that was ever alleged to have taken place from the notorious prison.

She resisted looking at the chapter on Sirius Black, because it was a source of considerable distress to her and her friends that they had never really succeeded in exonerating him in the public mind, and in case this book had a distorted account of the story, she did not want to lose time becoming upset about that now. She placed the book upright on the floor and tapped it with her wand, and it opened to a page on which there was discussion of the Anti-Dementor League, an organization that was founded in the 1930s but did not survive harsh government repression during the First War. She picked up the book and read:

> Anti-Dementor League members had always worked on strengthening their Patroni, and always opposed the use of dementors as Azkaban guards. During the 1950s they became increasingly active in challenging this, including by practicing civil disobedience in trying to use the Patronus Charm to drive dementors away from the prison. Most wizards considered such efforts to be laughable until a prisoner escaped from a cell near where ADL members had carried out such an action.
> 
> The prisoner was Gregory Cooper, a wizard who had recently been imprisoned after an Avada Kedavra conviction. He managed to board a Muggle Scottish fishing vessel whose unsuspecting captain carried him to the mainland, where he committed some burglaries and privately purchased a wand, and then used the killing curse again, this time against a witch, a mother of two who had testified against him at his trial. Public anger rose against the ADL, and those of its members known to have participated in the action were sentenced to time in Azkaban themselves.
> 
> One of these members, the witch Sara Soletsky, went missing from her cell some time during the third month of a one-year sentence, and her remains were never found. Some thought it possible that she used her own skill with the Patronus Charm to make her escape, but most wizards consider the odds against this to be prohibitive, and maintain that if she did escape she must have had outside help, perhaps from a Ministry worker who was a secret ADL member.

Hermione lowered the book. Fascinating as this was, it was not bringing her closer to the object of her inquiry. These did not sound like the victims of werewolf attacks. They sounded like very skilled witches, and at least in the case of the last two, it sounded as if they had _wanted_ to disappear. But where had they gone? If they had reappeared under other names or in other forms, it seemed no one had found out. Could this be the tip of some kind of hidden iceberg regarding non-conforming witches? Could the female werewolf mystery have anything to do with this? Such an idea was wildly speculative. She needed to find something more concrete.

She had another idea. The library had decades of back issues of _The Daily Prophet_ , and werewolf incidents always made headlines. It might be useful to see what was reported about them at the time they occurred. She stopped for another tea break before making her way to the separate room where the library's magically preserved archives of old newspapers were stored.

There were indexes for the newspaper by decade, and she took down the volume for the 1960s, because several of the mysterious werewolf testimonies had come from that period. She looked for werewolves, and found several entries under werewolf attacks. The first was dated June 11, 1960. Since this was not one of the dates she had recorded for the witches, she expected the victim was probably a man, but decided to look at it anyway, because it might be useful to compare the descriptions of such incidents with the descriptions of the alleged werewolf attacks on women from near the same time. The papers were stored in bins labeled with the year, and she looked through the 1960 papers until she found the right one, and brought it over to a table. The article was on the second page with the following headline:

PROMISING YOUNG MAN LOST TO LYCANTHROPY

Beneath the headline was a photograph of a witch and wizard in dress robes, with the caption: "John Willows with his fiancée, Lissa Cherrymont". The witch was very pretty, had blond hair and blue eyes and was wearing blue satin robes. Hermione thought the wizard's face looked vaguely familiar to her, and since she did not know him, she wondered whether he might have been a relative of someone she had been at school with. He was looking admiringly at the pretty, well-dressed witch beside him as if he was almost a bit surprised at his good fortune. Hermione thought that the witch did not show quite the same level of attention toward him. She began to read the article:

> John Willows, a 20-year-old wizard, was bitten by a werewolf Thursday night in the Lincolnshire Wolds. No werewolf was authorized to be in that area at that time and the Ministry of Magic is conducting an investigation to find the werewolf responsible, who has not yet been identified.
> 
> Mr. Willows was engaged to 20-year-old witch Lissa Cherrymont, the daughter of a prominent old Wizarding family. We spoke to Miss Cherrymont, who is devastated by the incident, on Friday. "Of course, there's no question of my marrying him now," she said tearfully. Their wedding, which had been scheduled for Sunday, June 26, has been cancelled.

A voice echoed down the years from Hermione's memory: _"You theenk Bill will not wish to marry me anymore? You thought I would not weesh to marry him?"_ _So she didn't love him as much as Fleur loved Bill. But Bill was not a werewolf. Or as much as Tonks loved Remus. But that was before the Wolfsbane Potion._ Hermione read on:

> Chester Cherrymont, the bride-to-be's father, blamed the Ministry's laxity for what he called this blight on his young daughter's happiness. "We are living in overly permissive times," he told reporters. "The Ministry has lapsed in its monitoring of werewolves. What use is the Werewolf Registry if they are not punished for every infraction? And yet our soft society can no longer stomach the death penalty for men turned monsters. If it were up to me the werewolf who bit Willows would be hanged."
> 
> Mr. Willows had been planning to begin a course of study in the fall at the Institute for Obscure Occult Studies, which has already issued a statement of intention to cancel his enrollment, citing fear for the safety of other students and concern that some witches and wizards wrongly associate the Institute with the Dark Arts. Mr. Willows had also been offered a financial assistance package which included a loan that the Institute’s financial office doubted a werewolf would ever be able to repay.
> 
> Mr. Willows, who was a Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, was making a living doing office work. He also enjoyed playing chess and was an accomplished flautist. He declined to be interviewed for this article.

_No wonder, after such a humiliating set of rejections_ , thought Hermione. This article revived in her the sense of indignation that had first motivated her to take up the issue. She knew of the Institute for Obscure Occult Studies, which had done some useful work in Arithmancy and in translating obscure texts from ancient runes, among other things. The idea that a law-abiding werewolf in attendance would be a threat to the safety of the other students was absurd. It was an adult school and most of the students lived off-campus anyway. As for denying opportunities to a werewolf because he would not be able to pay back a loan, this was the sort of self-fulfilling prophecy that she had joined Werewolf Support Services in order to challenge.

No one seemed to care about the person most hurt by the incident, only to want to be protected from association with him. The article's title and last paragraph made it sound like an obituary. In those days everyone took it for granted that a werewolf had no future, and if her adversaries had their way, those days would come back again.

"This is what I'm doing it for," she said aloud to the wizard in the photograph, "because of people like you and stories like yours." Her trip had been worth it if only for this. Her thoughts were interrupted by the magically amplified voice of Madam Pince.

"The library will be closing in fifteen minutes. All books to be checked out must be brought to the front desk immediately."

She had lost track of the time. She pulled a piece of parchment out of her bag and placed it over the newspaper article. " _Replicate!_ " she said, tapping it with her wand, and the photograph and article were reproduced on the parchment, which picked up the magic in the photograph so it remained animated. She planned to post it in her own home as a reminder of why she was right, and also to give a copy to Werewolf Support Services. She wished to ask the staff whether any of them knew what had happened to John Willows and if not to investigate whether he was still alive, though she knew that was a long shot, and to let her know if he ever came in for services.

She left the library without any books, and walked back down to the broom closet to retrieve her broom, and out the great oak doors again into the night. She was no closer, as far as she knew, to finding answers to the questions she had come with, yet the things she had found out had been interesting enough that she did not feel the day had been wasted. As she started her journey home, her thoughts were turning to the following day, when she would be taking her questions to a place where she hardly had more hope of finding plausible answers. She was going to visit the Lovegoods for afternoon tea. She had written to them explaining that she was interested in finding out more about their sources for the recent _Quibbler_ article, and though she knew there might be nothing in it, they had responded with a friendly invitation, and she was willing to follow any possible lead to the knowledge that she was not sure of finding anywhere.

***

The following afternoon Hermione traveled by broom again, flying in over the hills north of Ottery St. Catchpole until the dark tower that was the Lovegood house came into view. She landed in front of the gate, and as she started up the crooked path to the front door, Luna came out of it and ran to give her a hug, looking so glad to see her that Hermione felt a little guilty about not having been in touch. She still wasn't sure whether Luna had any friends except Harry and Ginny and Neville, who kept in touch, and herself and Ron, who did not. She imagined that for Luna to continue living in her father's world was probably isolating, but Luna had once said that if she left her father he would perish from loneliness and grief. This statement had stirred some guilt feelings in herself about her rather distant relationship with her own parents, which had never been the same since she had modified their memories, though of course their memories had been restored and everything explained to them.

"Hi, Luna!" she said.

"Hi, Hermione! Come on in. Tea's almost ready. We have some treats for you."

Hermione was determined to try to eat them, whatever they were. She followed Luna into the kitchen, where it smelled like something was baking.

"Why don't you join my father upstairs, and I'll bring up the tea tray," said Luna.

Hermione climbed the spiral staircase to the main room, which looked more orderly than at other times she had seen it, perhaps because this time her visit was expected, the times were less chaotic, and Xenophilius felt himself to be the host. They greeted each other and he showed her to an upholstered chair.

"Luna's making Bunglenut biscuits," he said, sitting down in another chair. "There's a Bungle bush down by the stream."

"Smells delicious," said Hermione.

At that moment a large tea tray came into view as it was ascending the stairs, with Luna behind it, maneuvering it with her wand. She set it down on a low table near the chairs. On it was a ceramic teapot with flowers and leaves painted on it, three matching cups with saucers, a large plate of lumpy-looking brown objects that Hermione supposed were the biscuits, and a plate of the orange radish-like fruit that grew in their yard. She noticed that there was no milk or sugar on the tray.

"I make healthy tea with herbs from our garden," said Luna, as she poured a cup for each of them. "This one helps to clear and focus the mind."

Hermione took a sip and found to her relief that it tasted like peppermint. They each helped themselves to a biscuit. Hermione bit into hers and found that the Bunglenuts were very hard and tasteless, but Luna had chopped them small enough that the pieces could be swallowed whole. The surrounding biscuit had rather the consistency and flavor of sawdust.

"You should eat some of the pickles too," said Luna, indicating the orange fruits, which had apparently been pickled. "They aid in digestion."

Hermione ate one of the pickles, which were sour and felt like an unpleasant counterpart to the biscuit. She continued to slowly drink her tea and nibble at her biscuit, thinking she could get away with just one. She lost no time in introducing the subject that had brought her there.

"Thank you so much for inviting me," she said. "Of course I am very interested in your recent article about female werewolves. I have some responsibility for the lunasturtia harvest, and for Ms. Wolvercote's disappearance, and if anyone has found any evidence either of her remains or her whereabouts, our department needs to know about this."

"We believe those witches thought to have been killed by werewolves are living in a mountain retreat that has been magically hidden from the Wizarding World," said Xenophilius.

"That can't be true," said Hermione.

"Why can't it be true?" said Xenophilius.

"Every five years the Ministry does a thorough geographical survey to check for any changes in the boundaries of magically hidden areas, to make sure all of them are Muggle-proof and to check whether any new places have been enchanted or magically hidden. They hire the top witches and wizards in the field for this. They've been doing it for hundreds of years."

"Ah--but suppose the place were hidden not in space, but in time? Suppose it was enchanted long ago so time would pass more slowly there, or not at all, and it doesn't yet exist in the present moment?"

This sounded like the stuff of fantasy. As far as Hermione knew, the Ministry knew of no such places, and yet...she had to admit that there were things as strange as that in the Department of Mysteries, things she had seen in the wild adventures of her adolescence but had never been briefed on as an adult employee of the Ministry. The Department of Mysteries kept its secrets even from other Ministry departments.

Xenophilius seemed encouraged by her thoughtful look. "Miss Granger," he said, "do you know that what is now Britain was once part of a lush, subtropical land mass?"

"Hundreds of millions of years ago," said Hermione.

"So if something living from that era got loose into ours, is this not evidence of unusual magic? Miss Granger--we have seen a _palm tree_ on the north coast of Scotland."

Since Xenophilius obviously thought he had said something impressive, Hermione could not suppress a slight smile, and she explained that a warm ocean current called the Gulf Stream that originated in the tropics and reached the Scottish coast could make such a thing possible.

"Miss Granger, there is something I wish to show you," he said, and beckoned her into another part of the room. Stuck to the circular wall was a huge fern over three meters long. "This was found not on the coast, but dozens of miles inland."

Hermione agreed that it was larger than the ferns that were native to Scotland, and she guessed that it might have come from the tropics, though she did not say so. "Mr. Lovegood," she said aloud, "no one would have been able to enchant a piece of Pangaea, because that time was long before the evolution of humans. There would have been no one there to cast the spell."

Xenophilius looked disappointed, but then a softer voice spoke.

"Hermione, I saw them." Hermione turned to see Luna's saucer-like pale eyes looking at her searchingly.

"Saw--who?" Hermione felt a bit unsettled.

"I saw female wolves in the Northwest Highlands, and I know from the way they looked at me that they were human. I'll tell you more when you come upstairs."

Hermione turned to Xenophilius again, thinking to ask permission to accompany her friend to her room, when he spoke again. "Not all magic is created by humans," he said.

She considered a moment and realized this was true. Could it be that he had more wisdom than she was assuming? The Deathly Hallows, which she had not believed in at first, had turned out to be real. Then he added, "Some think the Wulver is immortal," and her doubt returned.

"Daddy, I'd like to take Hermione up to my room," said Luna.

"Of course, dear. Run along," said her father.

Hermione followed Luna up the stairs to the next landing, where she caught sight of a lavatory door ajar.

"I need to use the loo," she said hurriedly, and as soon as she had shut the door, she vomited into the toilet. She would not need to digest the biscuit after all, and the assistance of the pickle would not be missed. She flushed the toilet, washed her hands and face, and followed Luna into her bedroom.

A glance at the ceiling showed that the portraits of herself and their mutual friends looked as fresh as ever, and Hermione was pleased to see that four new portraits had been added, faces of people she did not know, also linked with the word "friends.” Luna now had more friends than she herself did. Perhaps her work as a reporter was bringing her into contact with new people. She smiled at the other young woman, who had gone to the other side of her bed, where there were many brightly colored cushions on the floor. Luna beckoned Hermione to join her as she sat down on the floor with a big cushion at her back that was blue on one side and bronze on the other, the Ravenclaw colors. The bronze-colored fabric was shot through with metallic threads. Hermione suspected that Luna had sewn the cushion covers together herself. She chose a large red and yellow one, since it was the closest to her own house colors, to support her own back.

"I do most of the field work now, and I was the source for the story," said Luna when they were seated, "though Daddy helped to explain what I saw, and he wrote the article. I was searching the highest elevations in Scotland for the Fluttering Blabberbeak."

This did not sound promising to Hermione. Newt Scamander had not listed any such creature. "Is that some sort of bird?" she said.

"It's a bird that lives at very high elevations, and carries gossip from the heights of one continent to another, but we don't know whether any have survived in Britain. People drove them into the mountains long ago, because they can pick up any language, and when they shared habitat with people, they would repeat people's gossip in the hearing of their neighbors, and so they were hunted fiercely.

"I was in a forest in the Northwest Highlands, as far as I could get from human habitation, treading very quietly and watching and listening very carefully. I did not see a Blabberbeak, but I came face to face with something more surprising: a pack of female wolves."

This was surprising indeed. Britain's wolves had been eradicated centuries ago, and if they were back, ecologically minded Muggles must have reintroduced them. Either that or Luna had seen werewolves, or she was delusional, or she was making the story up.

"You thought they were werewolves?" she said aloud. "Was it at the full moon? Did they attack you?"

"No, it wasn't at the full moon, and they didn't attack me," said Luna. "True wolves would have growled or circled me or something threatening like that. Or they would have shown fear or mistrust. These wolves looked at me with such intelligence and understanding, I knew they were women like me, and that they knew the same thing."

"Animals can be very human sometimes," Hermione pointed out. "Do you remember my cat Crookshanks?"

"Crookshanks is a Kneazle," said Luna rather haughtily, as though Hermione was talking down to her.

"Then what happened?" said Hermione.

"I felt that I wanted to join them, to be in their pack and to go wherever they were going. I felt a great bond with them. They disappeared again into the forest, and I followed, and I felt as if I passed through some type of invisible tunnel, with everything blurry around me. Then in front of me I saw a row of ferns the size of trees, and beyond that I saw other unfamiliar plants, and the movement of bees and other insects. It looked like a garden full of life. I wanted to bring back a sample of the flora, and I cut one of the ferns down with my wand, but as soon as I did that, the scene in front of me disappeared, though I still had the fern. When I tried to walk forward, I hit an invisible barrier, and all I saw in front of me was forest."

"And then what?" said Hermione, who was becoming fascinated, though she didn't know how much of this might have been Luna's imagination. "Did you ever get back and see the scene described in the paper? Luna, you didn't see Sally Wolvercote, did you?"

"No, I never got back there. When I told the story to Daddy, he said that I had fallen through a time tunnel."

"Was that something he had ever experienced?" said Hermione doubtfully.

"No, but he has done a great deal of research in that field, and was able to figure out what happened."

"And he supplied the rest of the details for the story?" said Hermione, trying not to make this sound like a challenge. She suspected that she already knew the answer. Luna was no longer looking at her.

"Do you ever feel," said Luna, changing the subject away from her father, "that you tend to make your most important discoveries when you're not looking for them, or when you're looking for something else? I didn't find the Fluttering Blabberbeak, but I feel I stumbled on something bigger that I hadn't imagined was there."

This question struck such a chord in Hermione that for a moment she thought to tell Luna all about her own ideas and recent findings at the Hogwarts library. Perhaps if they were to pool their knowledge, Luna's freedom from the restraints of conventional thinking might have some value after all. But then she considered the lack of discretion the Lovegoods showed in their paper, and decided against it. She glanced out the window and saw that it was getting dark.

"Yes, I do feel that way sometimes," she said. "I know just what you mean. Luna, I need to be starting my trip home now."

"Okay."

"It's been lovely to see you, and I really appreciate your sharing this with me."

"Of course," said Luna, but her tone was cooler, and Hermione knew that her friend could tell that she was unsure how much of the story to believe. Both the young women rose and walked back downstairs to the main room, where Hermione said goodbye to Xenophilius.

"Thank you so much," she said. "It's been most interesting."

"I'm glad you could come," said Xenophilius, looking pleased.

The two friends walked back down to the front door and waved goodbye as Hermione mounted her broom and took off again for London. It was windy and her mind was so occupied with her thoughts that she had some difficulty steering and several times caught herself just as she started to veer off course.

She believed that Luna was telling the truth about what she had seen, but doubted her father's interpretation. She had not read any factual accounts of people stumbling on time tunnels, and she doubted that such things were natural features of the British landscape, as Xenophilius had suggested. She had traveled in time herself with the assistance of a time-turner, and it had not been like what Luna had described. What Luna had described sounded more like encountering a magical barrier deliberately erected by wizards, which had briefly opened and then closed again, which meant it was probably not millions of years old but could be very recent, perhaps more recent than the Ministry's latest survey. It sounded to her as if Xenophilius had interpreted his daughter's news with his usual combination of creativity and lack of any sense of obligation to base his story on fact. As for the wolves, their tameness did not make it more likely that they were werewolves than true wolves, but their presence was surprising in any case.

She thought again about the disappearance of the highly skilled witches, and felt that she was seeing ever more that the historical record she was familiar with had usually been in the male voice and had not included enough about witches in as far as their experiences were different from those of wizards. She felt it was typical of a wizard for Xenophilius to assume that if female werewolves had survived it must have been in the care of a man, the legendary, mythical Wulver.

But as the lights of the metropolis came into view and her everyday world came closer, she started to wonder at herself for even giving so much consideration to what the Lovegoods thought, and whether it might come from an unwillingness to face the harsh reality before her. Perhaps this entire quest was a distraction from the real situation that included two deaths and the threatened rollback of any rights for the werewolves, and the possible loss of her job. It relieved her to think that the following evening she would be seeing a sane, rational man who was one of the few living people she actually looked up to, for Steve Gillyfeld had accepted an invitation from her to go out to dinner.


	8. Who Can Resist?

_Monday, October 24-Tuesday October 25, 2005 – Last Quarter_

She had suggested that he meet her in a wizard restaurant that was somewhere between the Ministry and St. Mungo's, not far from where he lived. To Muggles it appeared as a shuttered storefront with an "out of business" sign in the window, but with some confidence a wizard could walk through the closed door, as through the barrier at King's Cross station.

She arrived first, asked for a table for two, and was seated. Gillyfeld was running a little late and she half expected him to show up in his Healer's uniform, but he appeared wearing the same Muggle jacket and pants he had worn a few days earlier to the Ministry. Seeing his cheerful and energetic presence among a crowd of relatively dull-looking people raised her spirits a bit. She felt like having some wine.

"I think I'd like to order a glass of wine."

"Sounds good," he said.

"Do you want one too, then? I could order a carafe."

"If you like," he said.

A waiter came and they also ordered their food. Hermione knew that Gillyfeld wanted to be kept in the loop regarding the werewolves, so she thought it best to catch him up on that before turning to anything more personal.

"I persuaded Goyle to agree to the change about how the vouchers should be distributed," she said, "and also to officially make werewolf registration voluntary, which he knows it effectively is anyway. I went to the Den to announce this, and it did seem to make some difference in the way they treated me. I want to tell you something I found out there that I think would interest you."

"Anything you found out would interest me."

"Do you know about the Werewolf Clinic?"

"No. They have their own clinic?"

"Yes. Someone in the Den suggested I post my notices there. I thought I might be able to share some of their information with the hospital, but I understand why they didn't want me to. They offer advice to werewolves who don't want to take the potion, and help for those injured in their wolf state, among other things. They probably want to protect the identities of the people the patients are being referred to. The patients may be doing some illegal things, or things that were illegal until recently."

"Yes, that makes sense. I'm not going to inquire about it, because if the time comes when they want us to know, they will tell us themselves. You don't want to be seen as having betrayed their confidence."

"No, I don't. But there was something else I saw there."

"What was that?"

"A notice about a meeting for werewolves concerned about how what they called 'the new porn' is affecting them. I saw really awful pornography in the Den, I mean graphic depictions of werewolves attacking women and doing every horrible thing to them you can imagine. It was side by side with anti-government conspiracy theory propaganda. They were using Greyback's execution as evidence that our government still hates werewolves. It makes me wonder more whether there's a plot of the type my friend suggested. Whether Dark Wizards are somehow feeding them this stuff to try to defeat our integration policy."

"I don't know, Hermione. Sad to say, there's a market for violent pornography, or something close to that, even among men who are supposedly normal. Werewolves have been more alienated from women than most men are, and they always had some kind of sexual interest in hunting them."

"I'm aware of that," said Hermione, _at least as much as you are_ , she thought, remembering Greyback. "But 'the new porn'? And some werewolves are concerned about it? Why should this stuff be getting worse while werewolves are becoming more integrated?"

"I would guess they're more concerned about how it's affecting them because they're becoming more integrated. Try to see the glass as half full."

This statement caused her to notice that their wine had come, and she poured each of them a glass, and they both began to drink.

"I was visiting my family the other day," he said, "and my sister took me to see a werewolf movie, and it was the stupidest piece of gory trash I ever saw, because I usually avoid gory movies. There's an even more destructive view of werewolves in the Muggle world, where no one knows any real ones."

"Do you think we should show them the evidence?" she said, meaning this as a joke, but far from returning her amused look, his face seemed to fall under a shadow, and for a second he did not look at her.

"My sister says there are worse horror films there," he said. "It seems some people get a kick out of watching people being tortured. Then there are the ones that glorify war, and the video games too, and some are against women. This is something apart from Dark Magic. The human race needs healing. It doesn't take curses to make people lose their reason. And whether people have the advantage of magic or not, some of them will push anything to make money."

"I know," she said, now appreciating his seriousness on the subject, which she supposed had been the reason for his dark look. It was reassuring to her to see a man as dismayed by this type of thing as she was. "But this stuff looked too expensive to have been made by werewolves, and if other wizards are pushing it on them, it's our business to inquire. And the propaganda was even more suspicious."

"Well as you said, if there is a conspiracy, that's really a matter for Magical Law Enforcement. I'm a Healer, and it's not my business to go chasing after Dark Wizards."

"No one is asking you to," she said with some irritation. "I meant it's the business of the government to find out what is going on. I think there's some hope of that. They may try again next month. I've cancelled the harvest until we have more people better trained in werewolf capture, but I'm going to request help from Magical Law Enforcement in surveying Beerden all night. If they see a werewolf in the forest they'll send for us, and if they catch one coming out they should be able to track him down and we can interrogate him. We can use Veritaserum if we need to."

Gillyfeld looked troubled. "Hermione, do you think if that happens, you'll have any say in what happens to him after that? When the Act made it illegal for werewolves to go to Beerden at the full moon, the penalty wasn't spelled out, but most people assumed it would be death, because they're still not confident about keeping a werewolf in captivity. That was one concession to the hard-liners that made it politically feasible to pass it. If there's another execution, especially of a werewolf more innocent and less disliked than Greyback, isn't it likely it would be used for the sort of propaganda you mentioned?"

"If we find out who's behind it, we can put a stop to that, as well as deflecting some of the vilification of werewolves," she said. "You know the consequences will be worse if the harvest isn't safe and we can't make the potion, or if we lose the government. Steve, there are times when it’s necessary to enforce the law." He still looked doubtful, which puzzled her, given the self-evident rationality of what she was saying.

"But supposing there isn't such a plot, and it's just an ill-informed and alienated lone wolf, or one who is mentally ill?” he said. “You have seven weeks until the next harvest. Might it be worth seeing what you can find out in the next few weeks, now you're gaining more trust from the werewolves, before requesting law enforcement to survey the forest when there's no harvest? Hermione, I'm not trying to tell you what to do. I can see your logic. But I think you're taking a gamble."

“It’s been brought on by a bigger gamble,” she said. “I don’t know whether I’m doing the right thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“With the broadness of the new law, and moving so fast on werewolf integration.”

“Of course you’re doing the right thing.”

“When werewolves are living and working among other wizards, it will be a disaster if they ever miss the potion. Can we really count on all of them always to remember?”

“What’s the alternative?” he said, amazed to be hearing this from Hermione of all people. “We'll either move forwards or backwards. What was it like before?"

The question sounded rhetorical, and Hermione looked as if she wanted to hear his answer.

"Werewolves who were socially excluded didn't feel much obligation to protect other people from their possible attacks," he said. "They didn't have much in their own lives to lose. If they suffered from self-loathing, they may even have wanted to be captured and killed.

“There isn’t a day in a werewolf’s life when he forgets that he’s a werewolf. They all pay attention to the phases of the moon. If they have jobs, let alone families, they have much more to lose, and much more motivation to be careful. If they do have families their families will be watching them. If they have jobs they will have already arranged to take the full moon off, and certainly won’t forget.”

He was again articulating what she had always believed herself, but for which she now sought reassurance.

“Lycanthropy is a contagious disease, and we have the chance to eradicate it,” he added. “The way things are going, there will be far fewer werewolves in the next generation, and the decline will be exponential. Even if a wizard is bitten now, it won’t be as bad as it used to be, since he will be able to live a normal life, and probably won’t bite anyone.”

Hermione was still troubled by a memory. “Steve, occasionally something can come up that can make a wizard forget anything but the present moment. A werewolf taught at Hogwarts one year, and there was such a moment, and he ran out and transformed on the school grounds. No one was hurt, but they could have been, especially since it was a place that housed children.”

“Was there any reason this werewolf needed to be at the school on the full moon?”

“Teachers live at the school, but the main reason was that the Potions master was making the potion for him.”

“Yes, Snape was one of the only wizards who knew how to make it back then, bless his secretive little heart. It’s not that way now. The werewolf would be able to get it from the apothecary in Hogsmeade. He could stay in the town or the outlying area. Was it Remus Lupin? Did you have him as a teacher?”

Hermione was startled. “Did you know him?” she asked.

“A little. Nice fellow.”

“Yes, very nice.” She was somewhat reassured, but still wanted more.

“There are people who think I’m moving too fast, and my boss has started listening to them. Is it possible they are right? That it should be up to the employers to hire werewolves they trust, and that the others would see that it was safe, and the change would happen gradually, instead of the government forcing the matter?”

“Hermione, if you listen to people like that, it’s never the right time for change, and it never happens. Do you know that in the States in the 1950s and 60s, when there was a movement of Black Americans to claim the rights of citizenship that had been written into the U.S. Constitution but denied to them for almost a hundred years, there were _still_ people saying it wasn’t the right time? That the government shouldn’t force the issue?”

Hermione gestured for him to lower his voice, for he was becoming agitated.

“Do you know that some Americans still say that after the Civil War their country wasn’t _ready_ to make this change yet, and so it couldn’t have happened then? Or about the British claiming they had to rule their imperial subjects who weren't _ready_ for self-government? How offensive is that? People were always _ready_ for their freedom. No one wants to be a slave or to be ruled by a foreign power. As if there were no human rights! As if all that mattered was what the oppressors wanted!”

“Steve, will you _please_ lower your voice?” she hissed, since some people at other tables had turned to look at them. This was pretty rich, she thought, for someone who had practically lectured her about the importance of discretion. And how would he know so much about Muggle history, especially American history?

“When and where did you learn about this?” she asked.

“My father was a historian, and was interested in liberation struggles, and I used to read his books on my summer holidays from Hogwarts.”

“Still, there’s a difference,” she said. “There’s no excuse for race discrimination, but fear of werewolves is not without basis.”

Gillyfeld was looking at her with something near exasperation, which she also found reassuring.

“Hermione, these people are not saying anything you never heard before. I realize that something very tragic has happened, and that you feel responsible, but the blame is being misplaced. Has it really changed your view of the big picture? You always spoke up for what was right with so much courage and clarity, no matter who was against you or how powerful they were. You're no stranger to adversity. Can you let them make you give up now, after everything you've accomplished, and everything you may do yet?"

"No," she said in a quiet tone that hardly conveyed her joy at hearing such praise from him, "I haven't changed my mind, and I'm not giving up. I was--advocating for the other side, for the sake of argument."

He smiled with relief. "Well I hope you still believe your own arguments, because all freedom-loving people are counting on you now." He finished his glass of wine and looked at her approvingly, then leaned back and stared above them into space. “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” he said dreamily.

She tried following his gaze in search of the arc of the moral universe before realizing that he was speaking metaphorically, probably quoting something historical that she did not know. She refilled both of their glasses and raised hers. “I propose a toast, then. To Remus Lupin, who helped to make it all possible.”

“To Remus,” he said, raising his own glass, and on meeting her eye his face lit up again with such a joyous smile that it seemed to be a look of pure love, though whether it was for her, for Remus, or for all freedom-loving people, she was not sure.

Their food had come, and he tucked into his with gusto, and eventually the waiter came to clear their places and deposit the check. Hermione looked at it.

"Shall we split it?" she said.

"I don't think so," he said. "You hardly ate a bite." She had only ordered a bowl of soup and eaten about half of it. "I'll take care of it," he said, depositing an adequate number of coins on the table before she could protest.

They walked out into the street and stood on the sidewalk. He was considering what might be the easiest way for her to get home, but she had eaten so little that the wine had gone to her head, and was not considering much of anything but her attraction to the man beside her. As when she had met him before, the prospect of being alone again after such companionship seemed bleak and made her anxious. She leaned against him suggestively, and after some hesitation he put his arms around her. A warm current shot through her.

"I wish I could stay here all night," she ventured.

" _Here?_ " he said in surprise, glancing around at the pavement and closed shops.

"I mean in your arms."

Again she sensed hesitation as he almost withdrew his arms, only keeping himself in such a position as to make sure she did not tip over. She started to feel embarrassed, and returned her weight to her own feet.

"I mean, I know I haven't known you long," she said, "but if you can believe it, I feel like I've known you ever since the day I saw you testify before the Wizengamot. I haven't often met anyone whose ideas are so much like mine. But perhaps you have other plans."

"Not for tonight,” he said, and paused in thought. “I remember that day too. I wasn't sure the measure would pass, so I gave it my best effort."

"It was very much appreciated," she said with feeling.

"I appreciated what you were doing too." He looked at her curiously. "You want to spend the night in my arms? I think we can manage that."

As they started to walk away from the restaurant she had a pleasant feeling of anticipation. Did he feel any less? He was a man, wasn't he? She was starting to wonder why he didn't kiss her, since she thought it was obvious that she wanted him to. Then he came out with something that took her completely by surprise.

"Is it just my ideas and my embrace that you want, or do you want this to include sex?"

She had never been asked such a question so directly, nor would it have occurred to her that he wouldn't feel entitled to assume the answer from what she had already said. Was it possible that he would let her spend the night in his arms without that? She was more impressed than ever. "All of it," she said without looking at him. When she did so again she caught him looking at her in a way he had not before, and something else flashed through her mind, a sudden consciousness of their age difference, though she doubted it was much more than the age difference between Lupin and Tonks had been. They were walking away from a streetlight, and in the half-darkness she could see a gleam in his eye. Now that she felt she had committed herself, she did have a little doubt about whether she was jumping into this too quickly.

They reached a darker part of the street and he finally turned to her and they did kiss. A more prolonged one, and she knew she had given the right answer.

***

She was awakened by the touch of a man’s mouth to her face. She opened her eyes.“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” said Gillyfeld, and she was startled to see that he was already up and dressed in his Healer’s uniform. “I’m working today and so are you.”

She stretched and smiled. She felt radiant with happiness. He was regarding her with a certain look of merriment, a sparkle in his brown eyes. “I have to run. Help yourself to some breakfast. I’m sorry to leave you like this, but I thought you ought to get some sleep. Have whatever you want,” he added, pointing to the kitchen, and then slipped out the door.

She looked at the clock. She had better get moving. She would have to wear the same underclothes she had worn the day before. After she came out of the shower, she cast a spell to deodorize them. As she was putting them on, she had an anxious thought. There were several forms of contraception in the Wizarding World but they had not used any of them. When she had been with Ron, the only other man she had ever slept with, she had been taking a potion, the most reliable form, but was now off it. There was also a spell one partner could cast on the other, which she had never used. Whether it had been the wine or her feelings about the man or her absorption in the things they were talking about all evening, she had shown an uncharacteristic lack of caution. Gillyfeld exuded such an air of confidence that when she was with him she forgot to worry about anything but the future of Wizarding society, and he even reassured her about that. She thought it was unlikely that he had any sexually transmitted diseases, since there was a test for all of them at the hospital, and though she could no longer vouch for his responsibility in everything, she was sure as a Healer he would have bothered to find out.

There was another thing she hadn't thought of. How would she get to work? He had a fireplace that she imagined was probably connected to the Floo Network, but she had forgotten to ask him, or to ask where he kept his Floo Powder.

She stepped into his living room and found by the light of day that it was what she considered a typical bachelor mess. She was not entirely sure why a wizard would not clean up his living room considering that he could do so with a few flicks of his wand. She brought her wand from the bedroom. " _Accio Floo Powder!_ " she said, and a box of Floo Powder came flying through the air and landed at her feet.

When she stepped out of a fireplace in the Atrium of the Ministry, it was the morning rush hour, but she beamed and said good morning to the first wizard she saw. Although he said, "Morning, Miss Granger," neither his tone nor his look were friendly. As she made her way across the Atrium, she greeted a number of people in a similar manner, but it seemed to her that everyone was giving her looks that were either puzzled or downright hostile. She soon figured out that her good feelings from the previous night must be written all over her, and that people probably thought it was inappropriate that she should look so happy so soon after the tragedy for which she was being held at least partly responsible. By the time she reached her own office those good feelings had completely evaporated, and her anxiety returned.

She found a note on her desk, and when she picked it up her stomach sank. It was from Sally Wolvercote's parents. When she opened it she found that they wanted to meet with her to discuss something in private, and that they would appreciate it if she would come to their house. That was fair enough. She thought she had best do it as soon as possible, so she sent a message back saying that she would come by that evening when she was through with work if they were available, and if not, that she would come at their earliest convenience.

***

That afternoon Sally Wolvercote and Dara had been playing, first in their wolf state but later in their human state. As it was getting dark, they sat near the back entrance to the caves, the one that faced the garden, and drank in the pleasant smells and mountain air. Wolvercote almost felt contented, but that could never last for long. She couldn't forget the people at home who were either grieving for her or worried out of their minds about her. Finally she popped the question.

"If I went home tomorrow, would you come with me?"

"If I said no, would you stay here with me?"

"That isn't fair," said Wolvercote in anguish. "I have a family at home. How can you ask me to do this to them?"

Dara took her hand and looked at her. "I had a family too, Sally, but I knew there was no longer any place for me in their world. It did hurt at first, but soon I realized that the people here are my family, and I couldn't ask for a better one. It would be the same for you if you stayed with us."

"Things are different now. How do you know there's no place for me in their world?"

"I always hoped for the changes you say are happening down there now," said Dara, still looking at her sympathetically. "But you must understand -- now it's as hard for me to leave this place as it is for you to break with your family."

"But if you left, at least your sisters here would know where you were."

"Didn't you write them a letter?"

"Have you forgotten there were no specifics?" said Wolvercote incredulously. "They won't know what to make of it."

"Come with me."

Dara stood up and pulled Wolvercote up by the hand and led her into the garden. Wolvercote followed her on several paths as she looked sharply and followed her nose to gather several herbs that she stashed in a pocket of her robe.

"What are you doing?"

"We're going to see your parents."

Wolvercote's heart pounded. She was not sure what Dara meant, but since this was the outcome she wanted, she hardly dared to question it. She was about to ask whether she should go back to the cave for her broom, when Dara pulled on her hand again, in the direction that led to the path to the lake.

"Follow me," said Dara.

They passed through the rows of lupins and ferns and onto the forest path, where it was now completely dark. Dara knew the path so well that she walked it in the dark without faltering, but Wolvercote soon tripped on a tree root and thought of illuminating her wand. But Dara waited for her and she lightly touched her friend's back, and listened in the darkness, and felt she would rather use her already sharpening wolf woman senses to find her footing.

When they emerged at the lakeshore, the moonless sky was overcast and the lake appeared as a black mass before them. Dara walked to the edge of the water and Wolvercote followed.

"What's their street address?" said Dara.

"Who?"

"Your parents."

"Twenty-five Flint Road, Broomsbury."

Dara reached for the herbs in her pocket and cast them into the water in front of them.

"Say it again," she said. "Speak clearly into the water."

Wolvercote stepped forward and stared at the place where the herbs had entered the water, and spoke the address a bit louder and with more enunciation.

"Stand back," said Dara, and Wolvercote walked backward toward the woods. Dara drew her wand and aimed it at the lake.

" _Hestia faerie focus locus!_ "

A brilliant white flame shot from the end of the wand and hit the surface of the water, which seemed to ignite with a glow that spread until the whole surface of the lake appeared to be burning with magical white light. The light began to condense and resolve into translucent, swirling shapes that looked something like the aurora borealis, and through which glimpses of the water beneath became increasingly visible again.

" _Wow!_ " said Wolvercote, forgetting her fear. "That is _so cool!_ "

Dara also stepped back and took her hand again. They waited until the fire had faded to pale and still swirling wisps, and then Dara led her back to the water's edge.

"Look," she said.

Wolvercote looked at the surface of the lake again and was startled to see that it was now crystal clear, and that she could make out objects in its depths. She peered forward intently and to her amazement realized that she was seeing the inside of her parents' kitchen. _We have magic that enables us to spy on a location down there, if we know exactly where to look..._

Her mother was seated at the table with a letter in her hand and her father stood behind her chair. Both of their faces showed signs that they had recently been crying. Wolvercote had yet another surprise when she saw that seated across the table from her mother was Hermione Granger.

"We don't know whether it's safer to keep it a secret," said her mother, "but we know how much she confided in you, and we feel we must tell someone."

"May I read it?" said Hermione.

The mother passed the letter across the table to her, and Hermione read it.

"It looks like Sally's handwriting," she observed.

"We think it sounds like her voice, too," said the mother.

"Then it doesn't sound to you like it was written under duress?" said Hermione.

At this the father stiffened and his hand clawed the mother's shoulder, and she tried to remove it.

"We don't know," he said. "If these people are not harmful, why would she say she is safe as long as no one tries to find her? If she were free to go, wouldn't she come back at once?"

"Not necessarily," said the mother.

"We're afraid she may be some sort of hostage," continued the father.

"If she were a hostage," said Hermione thoughtfully, "wouldn't there be some demand attached, such as for ransom? She says that these people rescued her and that she is recovering from her injuries. That suggests some goodness on their part. She may not yet be well enough to travel."

"Who would want to keep it a secret that they rescued someone from a werewolf attack?" said the mother. "Ms. Granger, you owe it to us to tell us everything you know. Does the Ministry know nothing about this?"

"If the Ministry had a hand in this rescue, or knew Sally was alive, they would want you to know," said Hermione.

"Doesn't the Ministry know where all the magical places are?" said the father. "Can you conduct a discreet search?"

Hermione continued looking thoughtfully at the letter. "I think it would be best to take your daughter at her word, and keep quiet about it for the time being. She says she is safe if no one tries to find her. These people are probably skillful if they rescued her from a werewolf, and if we search for them they may find out before we get there. My guess is that you will hear from her again. I can imagine how hard it is to wait, but..."

"You can imagine," said the mother tartly.

"We didn't want her to take this job," said the father angrily. "We knew it was too dangerous."

Hermione's face fell.

"She needed the money while she was an apprentice potion-maker," said the mother. "She believed in the work, and it was not our decision to make. Sally was an adult."

"She didn't understand how dangerous it was," said the father. "She was too young to remember the old werewolf attacks. Didn't I say--?"

"You did, and she made up her own mind as usual." The mother suddenly reached over and snatched the letter from Hermione's hand.

" 'I know that now a werewolf can live a normal life at home, but I'm not sure I want to live a normal life anyway'," she read aloud. "That's the statement we find most reassuring because--"

"Because it sounds like something Sally would say," said the father with a mixture of resignation and bitterness.

"If you feel that Sally is acting of her own free will--" said Hermione.

"Something her father was opposed to," said the mother.

"Only when her ideas were crazy," said the father.

"Perhaps I should leave you now," said Hermione. "You have my deepest sympathy, though it may be worth little to you, considering how I have failed you. Your daughter was doing vital work and she did believe in it, but that work will in the future be done by people better trained in werewolf handling. I honestly believe that this letter should give you hope, as it looks authentic to all of us. It may be that the rescuers are protecting the identity of the werewolf out of fear for his life. There may be more positive developments if they have the impression that matters less to us than Sally's welfare, which is more likely if we don't push them."

"Will you take it to the Ministry?" said the father.

"Honestly, I think it's better that I do not," said Hermione.

"Might there not be anyone there who could tell us more?" the father persisted.

"I doubt it," said Hermione. "The Ministry only thinks they have a monopoly on all the magical world's mysteries," she added darkly.

At this point the picture, which had been gradually becoming more watery, broke up completely, and the sound deteriorated into bubbles. Wolvercote was struck by Hermione's last statement. She did not sound like, and could not at that moment be speaking as, a representative of the Ministry.

"Sounds like Hermione is ready for the book," said Dara.

"Would you please stop mystifying me?" said Wolvercote with some exasperation.

"The Sorceresses want Hermione to know the truth about the female werewolves, since she is seeking it. We're writing a book about ourselves that we plan to throw her way -- well mostly Clara is writing it. She always seems to be our main spokesperson. She has the gift of the gab."

"I think you all have the gift of the gab," said Wolvercote.

Dara looked at her. "How do you feel now? Do you still feel it's time for you to go home, or will you stay?"

"I need to think about it," said Wolvercote, withdrawing a bit from the lakeshore and sitting down where there was some grass. But even as she spoke, she knew how her thinking was shifting. Her parents had been reassured that she was alive. The sight of their bickering and of her father's overbearing protectiveness reminded her of the reasons she had wanted to break away. She looked over at Dara, and saw a wolf whose appearance was already familiar to her. Perhaps Dara had transformed to give her some privacy with her thoughts.

The clouds in the sky were moving, thinning, revealing patches of darkness as the flames on the lake had done earlier. Eventually a starry sky was uncovered, its points of light reflected various ways by the lake, the surface of which now seemed to sparkle. Wolvercote smelled the pine trees and caught the smells of other wild plants. She caught the gentle sounds of the breeze in the pines, and of the water lapping gently at the shore, and then another lapping sound, and she looked over to see her first love drinking from the lake. Who or what in the world she came from could pull her back from this?

She walked over to the wolf and stood by her side.

"I will stay."


	9. The Night Owl

_Sunday October 30-Monday October 31, 2005 -- Waning Crescent_

When Granger had asked him out to dinner, Gillyfeld had supposed that she wanted to talk to him more about her work and to get his feedback on any new developments concerning her department's relationship with the werewolves. It had come as a surprise to him, though not an unpleasant one, that she had wanted to spend the night with him. He could see that the attacks on her career and the threat of losing it and everything she had worked so hard for were getting to her and that she needed support. Considering what his own life experience had been, he felt he could offer some. He had borne plenty of disapprobation over the course of his own career for doing what he thought was right, and his own job security had been threatened more than once, and in spite of this he was now very secure in his position.

He had taken her into his arms and talked to her about the bad old days when the Ministry refused to classify the Wolfsbane Potion as an essential medical potion and he had argued in vain with people who could not seem to see what had been as obvious to him as it had been to her: that werewolves were not part-human, part-evil-beast creatures that Wizarding society was doing a big favor by accommodating at all, but human beings with a dangerous medical condition that needed to be treated as such, and that it had been a disgrace that most of them couldn’t afford to regularly buy the potion. How when Lucius Malfoy had been a big philanthropic donor to the hospital he had tried to stipulate that no money from his donations should be used to buy the potion, and how when Gillyfeld had protested, Malfoy had tried to pull whatever strings he could, though unsuccessfully until the Death Eater government came along, to cause him to lose his job.

But when he came to the subject of the thing that had gotten him into the most trouble, his opposition to and subversion of the Wizarding Statute of Secrecy, she had become quieter, and he soon realized that it was probably unwise to discuss this with anyone from the Ministry, even her. Enforcing the Statute was the main mission of the Ministry, and he sensed that her feelings about it were not the same as his. Since the separation of wizards and Muggles was the biggest personal disappointment of his life, he felt this put a limit on their intimacy, at least in conversation, and he dropped it. He channeled his expression of support into physical affection instead, which came easily to him, being the naturally warm and affectionate person that he was. When it came to sex, he aimed to please, and he believed he had done so, especially since she was obviously in better spirits in the morning than she had been the previous evening. But the experience had left him feeling eager to be once again with someone with whom he could completely be himself and share everything, and he had a feeling he had found that person, and that it was not Granger.

He did believe there was one more thing he could do to support her. From the time in their first conversation when she had told him she planned to visit the Den to announce her department's new policies, he had resolved to go there himself to reinforce her message and to encourage more openness. He believed some werewolves might still be more likely to trust someone who did not represent the government, and that they would remember that he had taken Wolfsbane himself, and that a man might still get an easier reception in this male preserve. He had made some acquaintances there during the time of the clinical trial, and there was a chance he might find some of them again. So on his next free evening he trod the path he had not taken in years to the old werewolf haunt.

The werewolves in the Den had always gambled at a variety of Wizarding and Muggle games, since there were Muggle werewolves among them, and Gillyfeld had earlier made the acquaintance of an old werewolf there who, though a wizard himself, had been pleased to find in him a worthy partner for Muggle chess. Wizard chess sets were expensive and the werewolves had not invested in one, fearing theft. Gillyfeld expected that Trackless, who had been skeptical about the potion, was likely still to be found there, and he thought he might reintroduce himself by challenging him to a game.

When he poked his head in the door of the large underground room, the first thing that struck him was that there were considerably fewer people there than there had been a few years earlier. A few men were congregated at the back, apparently looking at some papers or magazines, and one of them shot him a look that was suspicious and hostile. Closer to the bar three men sat at a table playing poker, and as he had expected, Trackless was one of them. The other two men both looked up at him and nodded in greeting.

"Why Healer Gillyfeld," said Trackless, who could apparently see him out of the corner of his eye, "to what could we werewolves possibly owe the privilege of a visit from the likes of you?"

"I thought maybe I could interest you in a game of chess," said the Healer. "I never forgot the humiliation of my last defeat, and consider that you owe me a rematch. Whenever you're finished with whatever games you're already committed to, of course. Can you spare any time this evening?" Then on an afterthought he added, rather in the other man’s style, "If not then name another time or I will publicly proclaim your cowardice."

"I'll play with you as soon as this game is over," said Trackless. "In the meantime I think you'd better have a whiskey." He turned toward the man behind the bar. "Finnegan, kindly pour this gentleman a whiskey."

Finnegan looked inquiringly at Gillyfeld, who nodded in assent. _When in Rome_ , he thought. He picked up his glass of firewhiskey at the bar and walked over to where Trackless was sitting. He slowly sipped his drink. He seldom drank, and for the second time in a week was enjoying the pleasantly warm and relaxing feeling. He looked at the cards in Trackless’s hand. The queen of hearts winked at him, and he could not suppress a smile.

“Don’t give me away,” muttered Trackless comically under his breath. Gillyfeld stepped back a little but continued observing the game, since the players didn't seem to mind his presence. When it was over Trackless rose and went to a side cupboard for a chess set, which he set up on another table, and Gillyfeld sat down with him. They played in near silence for a few minutes as Gillyfeld thought about how best to break the ice.

"How are you doing?" he said.

"About as well as can be expected," said Trackless, removing one of Gillyfeld's knights.

"I think you might be expecting too little," said Gillyfeld. "I mean that maybe you could aim higher."

"You don't say," said Trackless, moving a bishop to threaten Gillyfeld's queen. Gillyfeld could only take the bishop with the queen, and the spot was protected by one of Trackless's knights. Gillyfeld thought distractedly about what else to say while Trackless systematically removed most of his pieces from the board.

“Check,” said Trackless, “and I believe it’s mate. Oh come on Steve, you weren’t even trying.”

First names were seldom used in the Den, and Gillyfeld took it as an encouraging sign that Trackless had addressed him this way.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said. “Hermione Granger from the Ministry came here. Did you talk to her?”

The other man’s demeanor became a little more closed. “I might have known you didn’t come here to enjoy the company of werewolves,” he said more coldly.

“I came here to remind you that we’d enjoy your company above ground. I don’t know whether you realize how much things have changed in the last few years.” There was a pause. Trackless did not say anything.

“Trackless, I know how mistrustful you and your friends have always been of the Ministry. I know at the time of the trial you didn’t believe the Wolfsbane Potion was safe, and maybe you still don’t. You should know that most werewolves have been taking it safely for years now, and are able to live much more normal lives. You also should know that Granger is sincere. I know her and can tell you that for certain. The Ministry is now enforcing a policy of non-discrimination against werewolves.”

“This Granger woman,” said Trackless, “how much influence does she really have at the Ministry?”

“Oh, I’d say a bit. She’s now the head of the Beings Division. The only people above her are the head of the Creatures Department and the Minister for Magic himself. She has always been very outspoken about her views, and they wouldn’t have promoted her if they opposed her agenda.”

“The Creatures Department,” said Trackless sardonically. “So we werewolves have now been promoted from beasts to beings?”

“Yes you have been, and you can thank _this Granger woman_ for that,” said Gillyfeld, imitating his tone. But then he addressed the other man earnestly. “You never mistrusted my motives, did you, Trackless? Will you allow me to vouch for a friend?”

“No, I knew you were a true believer,” said Trackless, answering the first question. “I just thought you were a fool, like Remus Lupin.”

“Remus Lupin was not a fool,” said Gillyfeld, bristling a little.

“Did you know him?” said Trackless in mild surprise.

“A little. The Wizarding World is pretty small.”

“Why is it, then, that he is dead and I am still alive?”

“Why is it, do you suppose, that he was married and had a child, and you wouldn’t dream of such a thing?”

“His wife is dead too, if I’m not mistaken, and she was even younger than he was. He threw in his lot with people who wanted to sacrifice themselves for a cause. I consider that foolish, especially for a werewolf.”

“They did not want to sacrifice themselves. They knew that their lives and the lives of others depended on who won the war. Neither you nor I nor they would be alive today if Voldemort had won. Why do you think Lupin and Tonks are remembered fondly and mourned by werewolves and non-werewolves alike?”

“You have me there,” said Trackless drily, though not without a trace of bitterness. “No mourners will follow my casket. No one will plant flowers on my grave. No relatives will tear their hair, rend their garments, or dip themselves in ashes for my sake. And you know something? I won’t care because I’ll be dead. What can a dead man do with such attention? I prefer a long life full of whiskey, raw meat and no government.”

“I think you’ve spent your life convincing yourself of that because you were denied a life full of love and meaningful work. But is that what you want for the werewolves who come after you? The ones who are young now, who have a chance to join a society that is finally accepting them? You’re all under a government whether you like it or not. The question is what kind of a government will it be?”

“What difference does it make what I want? Great goblins, do you think it was I who went to Beerden? I don’t tell anyone else what to do.”

Gillyfeld looked at him intently.

“Do you know who went to Beerden, Trackless?” he asked quietly. “Do you know whether it was planned or an accident?”

“Certainly not, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. I’m not in the business of sending my werewolf brothers to their death.”

“It’s a matter of trying to stop it from happening again. You know you have influence, whether you admit it or not. The people who hang around here listen to you, and they’re the ones who are in doubt. Any werewolf who does such a thing is putting all his werewolf brothers at risk. Granger’s career is at risk, and so is the Anti-Discrimination Act.”

“No doubt,” said Trackless, “one instance of a missed potion by a werewolf with a job, which will happen, and this charade will be over soon enough. You expect me to believe that things have really changed?”

“Yes I do. If you would only allow your heart to listen to your brain.”

“You really are an original, Dr. Steve. How about another whiskey?”

Gillyfeld was not an easy man to discourage, but even he found arguing with Trackless rather taxing, and he felt that drinking more would only weaken his ability to hold his own. Simple drunken camaraderie was not going to change this man’s mind.

“I need to be getting home. I’m working in the morning. Goodnight, Trackless. Goodbye,” he said to the rest of the room. “I hope to see you all again.”

The card-players were now very intent on a cribbage game and on the piles of coins they had stacked up on each side of their little table, but they looked up and nodded. The men at the back of the room ignored him. He walked out the door and up the stone steps at the back of the building.

He paused and looked around him, and then up at what he could see of the sky. It was a dark, moonless night, and there were no streetlights here, but it was hazy and polluted and he could not see many stars. There was an unpleasant smell here. He had a sudden yen to be out in open country again, and to be able to see a starry sky. He was a wizard in a neighborhood unknown to Muggles. It was late at night. Who was to stop him from Apparating to some place where he could see the sky? He was still warm from the firewhiskey. This gave him pause. Wizards were often brought to St. Mungo’s because they had misplaced body parts when Apparating Under the Influence. He advised his patients not to Apparate after more than one firewhiskey, and he had had two. But he didn’t feel drunk. Perhaps if he didn’t go too far…maybe just to some place in the greater metropolis...he thought of the Witches' Heath, then dismissed the idea as foolish. He was working in the morning and should take a bus home and go to bed.

But as he turned toward the path leading back to Knockturn Alley, he thought he heard a noise. He spun around and thought he saw the slightest movement of a shadow a block or so down the dirt alley behind him. On an instinct he turned on his heel and he soon found himself in a meadow mostly surrounded by woods. The place looked familiar to him, and after a few minutes he realized that he had Apparated not to the Witches' Heath but to Hampstead Heath. " _Muggle!_ " said a voice in his head derisively, a memory of what his hypocritical Gryffindor housemates had sometimes called him in his early years at Hogwarts if they found him reading Muggle books or doing other Muggle things. Hypocritical, he thought, because they were proud of accepting Muggle-born wizards while still looking down on Muggles.

On looking around some more he could see that he seemed to be alone in this quiet place. He knew his jumpiness came from his time as a fugitive during the war. In all the years since, he had never quite shaken his susceptibility to the idea that he was being watched or followed. As a wizard with a wand he did not have much to fear from common Muggle muggers or thieves.

He lay down on the ground and looked up at the sky. It was still hazy and partly overcast. He listened again but now thought he heard a sound from the nearby woods. Yes, he was certain of it, but it was an animal sound, not a human one. It sounded like an animal that was trapped and in pain. His Healer’s instinct, or the instinct to relieve suffering that had led him to become one, immediately kicked in. He couldn’t ignore it. He walked toward the woods in the direction of the sound. He entered the woods and the sound became louder. It was pitch dark. He drew his wand.

“ _Lumos!_ ” he said.

All he could see were trees and undergrowth, but he pushed his way through them in the direction of the sound. It sounded near, but as he kept going toward it, it seemed to retreat. He knew he might be lost, but there was no use in turning back now. He would have to find his way out somehow afterwards. What mattered now was to find the animal. Just when he had silently articulated this thought, he stumbled into a clearing, and there was a trap there that looked like the Jarvey traps. He pointed his wand at it and silently cast a spell, and the box sprang open. There was no Jarvey in it, but something smaller that was no longer moving. He had a feeling of foreboding as he came closer, and then saw to his great surprise that it was the owl that had delivered Granger’s letter from the Ministry to his parents’ house.

He gently removed the owl. “You’ll be fine,” he said to it reassuringly, although he had no potions with him, nor the means to make any. He pointed his wand at it and cast a charm. It jumped and fluttered its wings. He knelt down beside it and examined it as best he could. It seemed to be alright. Then he looked up and saw Bette Barbary standing in the clearing.

“I heard it too, and I had to come,” she said. “I could hear that it was in pain.” Her beautiful eyes were alight with compassion.

_She is like me_ , he thought, not for the fist time, but now he had proof. They stepped forward and kissed, and this time did not stop. He had the feeling he was at last reaching the thing he most wanted. Then a sound interrupted them. It was the owl. It was still in pain. He hadn’t healed it after all. For an instant he was bitterly torn between an intense desire to continue what he was doing and a guilty sense of responsibility for the owl. He opened his eyes.

He was lying on the ground, looking at a large orange crescent moon that hung just above the top of the trees in the nearby woods. He realized he had fallen asleep and had been dreaming, but the vague feeling of guilt had not left him. _What was he doing here? What time was it?_ He was now completely sober and realized he had not been when he came here. He was working in the morning. It must be morning already.

He took a last look at this strange moon. One of his first astronomy assignments at Hogwarts had been to find out what magic made the moon so much bigger when it was near the horizon, and he had found out it was just an optical illusion, like a Muggle magic trick. The teacher had wanted to illustrate the difference between real magic and illusions. Gillyfeld had loved astronomy, and sometimes used to sneak up to the tower after hours to look at the night sky. It didn’t bother him that cooler kids than he snuck up there to meet their girlfriends or boyfriends, unless he happened to stumble on them. But now there was someone who lived near the Heath…which hardly meant she was nearby, the place was so big…he wasn’t sentimental or romantic, as far as he knew…he turned on his heel again and Apparated back to his flat.

***

In the eye of Hermione’s mind, John Willows and his bride were approaching the altar, but the picture was black and white and grainy, an old photograph. Suddenly fur started to appear on the man’s arms, and his teeth to grow longer and sharper. He was transforming. His bride was looking at him in horror and disgust. A man a little behind her, who she knew was the bride’s father, aimed a wand at him and tried to cast the killing curse, but Willows was already a running wolf, and it missed him.

A naked woman was running through the woods, and the werewolf was running after her as in the porn magazines. He was getting closer. An unearthly, terrible, disembodied voice said:

_Did you expect there’d be no payback?_

The werewolf reached the woman and sank his teeth into her. Hermione could not watch, knowing it would not be a quick death but a torturous one. But after a minute of silence she looked again and saw the corpse. She had to see who it was, in case it was Sally Wolvercote. She had to find out for sure what had happened to Sally.

She walked over to the corpse, peered at the face, and screamed. It was herself. Her scream woke her up. She sat up in the dark. She hadn’t woken up from a nightmare in that manner since she was a child. She looked over at the timepiece by her bed. It was almost seven o’clock. She might as well get up.

The morning was cold. She wished Gillyfeld were there to take her in his arms and tell her she was doing the right thing. She wished she could wake up with him every morning, and wondered whether such a thing could possibly be in her future. She went to the kitchen to fix herself a cup of tea, but she didn’t feel like eating. She always felt queasy in the morning, when her anxiety was usually worst.

When she reached the kitchen doorway she found a dead mole lying across it. Crookshanks had been killing more animals than usual lately and leaving them where she would be sure to see them, as if they were offerings to her. She would have to speak to him roundly about this. As it was getting light, she walked over to the newspaper article stuck on her wall. “It isn’t your fault,” she said to Willows, but he could not hear her. As she spoke aloud, she started to shed tears. As she got ready to leave for work, she felt thankful that she did have work, and that now a great deal of it did not concern werewolves.


	10. Interlude

_Wednesday November 2, 2005 -- The Dark of the Moon_

It was midnight in a pitch-dark place, but at the bottom of the lake by Hogwarts castle, the giant squid could sense something out of the ordinary. Slowly he raised and uncoiled one of his long tentacles until its tip broke the surface. A strange mist had rolled in from the mountains and settled over the lake. The squid knew this mist was not native to this place, and sensed that it portended something.

The mist sank into the lake and materialized into something solid, fleshy, slippery, a mass of grey-green tentacles, a form that had lurked for ages in his memory, for ages unthought-of, and yet he knew it was the same one. Not quite his own kind, but close enough. The only partner, only true companion he had ever had, for whom he had mourned and then long ceased to mourn, was as long-lived after all as he was. He did not ask where she had been, only threw himself into their play until he was tired, and paid as little attention as possible as she dissolved again and the strange mist rose from the lake.

The mist glided along the ground and reached the side of the castle, where it moved along the base of stone wall until it reached an opening, a crack under a door in a circular tower, through which it slid. Inside the tower was a spiral stone staircase, which was activated by contact with the magical substance, and began to rotate upward, carrying the mist with it. The staircase hit a ceiling at the top of the third floor, so the mist, now compressed to a thicker fog, slipped out an opening to a third floor corridor.

A second-year Gryffindor boy, who had stolen out of his dormitory to see what the suits of armor, paintings, and ghosts did by night, was whispering to a suit of armor when he saw the mysterious fog creeping along the floor in his direction.

"AAAHH!" he cried, and ran up the nearest staircase to the fourth floor, where an insomniac Filch was making his last rounds to see whether anything was out of order. Filch caught sight of the boy from farther up the corridor.

"Ah-HA!" he said, looking like a cat that had just spotted a mouse. "Sneaking around _after midnight_ , are we? Every hour past curfew means--AAAAHHHH!" he interrupted himself with a terrified cry as the mysterious fog, which had followed the boy up the staircase, reached the fourth floor and began creeping in his direction.

Peeves came rolling through the air in the corridor, delighted to hear Filch in such distress, and equally delighted by the mysterious fog creeping along the castle floor.

_Creepy, creepy, Hogwarts is haunted!_ _Is it a new ghostie?_

The boy had run down the corridor in the other direction, and Filch found yet another staircase and took a circuitous route back to his office, where he grabbed Mrs. Norris, slammed the door, and told himself that whatever it was would not dare bother them there and would be gone in the morning, or the headmistress would intervene. The fog continued to creep along the corridor until it reached a door to the library, under which it slid.

Meanwhile from the northwest a witch on a broomstick sped through the dark night, her long, white-blond hair flowing loose beneath her pointed black witch's hat. As she came nearer to the castle, she descended in altitude, and when she reached the level of its higher towers she began to circle around it. A window on the fourth floor opened, and the flying witch reduced her speed while she continued to descend until she was level with it. When she reached the outside of the window she hovered by it, and reached with her right hand into her cloak, from which she drew a small, rectangular object which she passed through the window, where another, more ancient hand received it.

The witch on the broom took off again into the night, disappearing again in the direction of the mountains. From the castle window a strange fog slipped out into the night air, rose and sped away in the same direction. In the castle lake, the squid was drifting off, unsure whether what he had just experienced had been a dream. He hoped so, since for her to return and then leave him again was unbearably painful to him, but if it was only a dream, then he could dream again.


	11. Getting A Clue

_Tuesday November 8-Wednesday November 9, 2005 -- First Quarter_

Draco Malfoy had not been looking forward to the next meeting of his father's cohorts, but considering what he already knew, felt he had no choice but to attend. He believed their current strategy was reckless in the extreme. If anyone found out they were inciting werewolves to attack people, or had anything to do with such attacks, they might all wind up in Azkaban. There were people who felt his father had gotten off too lightly after the war as it was. Draco could remember when his father had been a respected and influential member of society, using his wealth to grease whatever wheels he chose, and that was the future the young man wanted to secure for himself. Voldemort had only brought his family grief and gotten them into trouble.

He thought it was unfitting that people of his sort should even have anything to do with werewolves. He had always disliked Fenrir Greyback. He had felt several causes of humiliation on the night of Dumbledore's death, but one was that the headmaster had reproached him with introducing that child-killing maniac into the castle, though the old hypocrite had been reckless enough himself to hire a werewolf as a teacher.

Draco had recently made a big decision and taken a risk. He had visited the Ministry to talk to some of his family's old political allies, men who had not been Death Eaters but had been happy enough to benefit from his father's bribes in the years before Voldemort's return. He had hinted to them that his father had become unreliable, and that he was the member of his family that they would benefit most from dealing with in the future. He spoke to them of their shared conservative vision, and the promise of the political pendulum swinging their way again in future, as it had recently swung too far the other way for many people's liking. He had assured them that he did not want and never would want any part in any neo-Death Eater business, and that if any such business reared its ugly head, it had nothing to do with him.

He knew this had been a risky thing to do because it might throw suspicion on his father, and make exposure of his activities a little bit more likely. There was also the chance that his father might find out about this visit and try to get to the bottom of it. But Draco thought the risk to himself of doing nothing was greater. He no longer had any love for his father. He feared the old man's ire for one reason only: that he wanted to inherit the family fortune, and he wouldn't put it past the old man (for such Azkaban had made him, though he was not so old in years) to disinherit him. Lucius really had become more irrational and unpredictable since his imprisonment, but for that very reason, Draco thought he might have a weapon if it came to the worst: he might be able to have his father declared mentally incompetent. He believed he could get a Healer to testify that someone who had spent five years in Azkaban could be assumed to be clinically insane, and if someone with as much family pride as Lucius tried to disinherit his only son...well...

As he walked onto the driveway that led to the manor gate, he saw it cast a slight shadow in the moonlight. He felt sad now as he approached the scene of his best and worst memories. It had been the happy home of his childhood until Voldemort had moved in and ruined everything. He wouldn’t give that entity the honorific title of “The Dark Lord” any more, though he still did not dare to say the name aloud, so he avoided mentioning it at all.

They had not been invited to dinner this time. Though Draco's discomfort with his father had been enough to cause him to break with tradition by moving out, he often showed up at his parents’ house for dinner without invitation, partly to see his mother, and partly since thanks to their competent service, he ate much better at his parents' table than he did at his own. But considering what was on his own mind and what might come up in conversation, tonight he had wanted more than usual to avoid any face time alone with his father, and had waited until he supposed the others would have arrived.

He raised his arm and passed through the gate. At least he was going to see the only person who really loved him. If he and his father became open enemies it would break his mother’s heart, and he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He would continue to play it cool.

As soon as he entered the door, the house-elf took his cloak, but Draco ignored him and turned into the drawing room, which in recent years had been restored to a more civilized state than it had been in during the war. A fire was blazing in the fireplace and silk brocade upholstered armchairs were scattered around a tea table. Draco entered and kissed his mother and sat down in an empty chair next to her. The house-elf reappeared and poured him a cup of tea from a silver tea service. Draco noticed that his father seemed to be most engaged in talking to Bentley and LeClair. _The werewolf club_ , he thought grimly.

Bentley was talking about his efforts to spy on Steve Gillyfeld. He had never quite gotten over the way Gillyfeld had slipped through his hands when he had thought he was sure of capturing him as a fugitive, and had been spying on him ever since. Draco heard him say something about extendable ears, which had been considerably improved on since their invention by the Weasley twins. “I’ve picked up over the years that he still wants to modify the Wolfsbane Potion,” he said.

“Are you thinking that would give us an opportunity to poison it and discredit him?” asked LeClair.

“I thought of it, but it would have to be very cleverly done, because if he changes it he would test it on himself before anyone else, and he has the antidote to almost everything at his disposal. Not that he wouldn't be too much of a fool to be on guard against such a thing.”

“Not too much of a fool to avoid the capture you said would be easy,” said Lucius. “Have you picked up anything lately?”

"He and Granger spent the night together."

Draco could hardly keep from rolling his eyes. Who in these times gave a Niffler’s arse what single adults were sleeping together? Though he did wonder for a malicious moment whether that loser Weasley knew about it. When he glanced at his father, he saw that Lucius also looked disdainful.

"Is that the best you can offer us, Paul?" he said drily. "In case you haven't noticed, the Wizarding World's leading tabloid is more sympathetic to our enemies than _The Daily Prophet_."

"My interest was in their conversation," said Bentley coolly. "He started admitting to illegal activities."

"Flouting the Wizarding Statute of Secrecy?" said Lucius. The strange glitter was in his eyes, and his tone had become harsh. "Do you think that's news to me? He always flouted the Ministry’s rules, and unlike us, he always got away with it. I was a pillar of support to the hospital before the last war, and that Mudblood upstart argued with the administration against my wishes for how my generous donations should be used. I don’t part with my gold to be used for purposes I don’t agree with. I tried to convince the Ministry that such a lawbreaker should not be working at the hospital, but on this issue they ignored me. If you couldn’t take him out even when we controlled the government, do you think you’ll pull it off under the current Ministry?”

“He was relieved of his duties when we controlled the Ministry,” Bentley pointed out, “and reckless as he sometimes is, it’s worth watching for an opportunity.”

“We should continue what we’ve started with success,” said LeClair. “Another werewolf attack, after what happened last month, might be the death of the Werewolf Act. They’re very venal, and I don't doubt we can pay off one or more of them to do it again.”

“We could, although it would start to raise their suspicions,” said Bentley. “The more we continue this course, the more likely it is that someone may figure out what is going on. It might already be time to pursue the political angle.”

“We need to make sure of the outcome,” said LeClair. “Another bold action would probably do it. What if more than one werewolf were to show up, so they know it isn't just one bad apple? Werewolves feel a certain solidarity with each other. What if one of us disguised himself with Polyjuice Potion and visited the Den pretending to be a werewolf, and made the kind of arguments we have already made to incite them to the attack? It might be more effective than relying on our werewolf contacts.”

Bentley looked at LeClair as if he were crazy. “The werewolves all know each other, and none of us could take one out and pretend to be him, even temporarily, without them realizing it.”

“You didn’t quite follow my thinking. I am suggesting that someone disguise himself as someone from far away, someone they wouldn’t know, and present himself as a newcomer to them.”

“They know there haven’t been any new werewolves for years. They all know each other,” said Bentley.

“You could pretend you had been a werewolf for a long time, but had kept it a secret, and if you were from far away from London it would be plausible that you hadn’t been to the Den and that they didn’t know you. You could pretend to have some grievance and be seeking revenge. It would be right up their alley. You give werewolves credit for being cleverer than they are, Paul.”

“I think it’s a good plan, and that Mr. Bentley, considering his past success in werewolf recruiting, would be the perfect man for the job,” said Lucius, fixing Bentley with a look that was difficult to read. “And I have another idea that will probably make this a certain coup. In case there are no harvesters next month due to last month’s incident, you can use the Imperius Curse to compel some witch or wizard to be in Beerden that night.”

“You want me to do all this myself?” said Bentley.

“Lucius is right,” said LeClair. “You have recruited werewolves before, and know how to talk to them. If it doesn’t work, they’ll have no way of finding out who you were. You were always very good at covering your tracks, Paul.” Bentley could not deny this, or that he could pull it off if anyone could.

“A splendid chance to put all your skills to use, Paul,” said Lucius. “But I have been neglecting some of my company. Would anyone care for another cup of tea? Some chocolate iguanas?”

Bentley was feeling stifled and excused himself. He did feel like putting all his skills to work, without restriction as to which skills or what work, an ambition that had once landed him in Slytherin House and from there led him to become a Death Eater. He went to retrieve his cloak from the hallway. It was lined with Jarvey pelts and was very warm. As he took it from its hook, he noticed the more expensive furs belonging to the family that hung nearby, and a slight feeling of distaste rose in him for this lazy family that never did anything themselves. He walked out the door of their mansion and into the brisk autumn air.

He was now very glad to have a warm cloak, since he planned to make a broom trip north, where he expected he could waylay some piece of common Muggle trash to get material for his disguise. He decided on the northeast coast of England, and a few hours later he started to descend on his broom near the outskirts of Hartlepool, looking for a sign of a public house in a relatively dark area. It was now late at night, and doubtless he could catch a drunken Muggle, especially if it were closing time. Eventually he spotted what he was looking for, a pub that even had a little woods behind it. He landed and hid in the woods.

Soon a man came walking out of the pub with an unsteady gait, and Bentley aimed a stunning spell at him and he fell over. There was no one else in sight, so Bentley quickly stole forward and grabbed a tuft of the man’s hair, and then turned out the man’s pockets to make it look like a robbery. He noticed with contempt that the pockets were completely empty. He knew if he left the man unconscious with no sign of injury it might look suspicious, so he kicked the man in the side of the head hard enough to leave a bruise. He intended to make the Polyjuice Potion the following day and to visit the Den the following evening.

***

As the weeks that followed the full moon had passed, Hermione had found that her request that Magical Law Enforcement keep a low profile with the werewolves had been a naïve one, and they were pursuing the case of the errant werewolf with their usual ineptitude, though not heeding Arthur's suspicions about Dark Wizards. The weight she gave to Gillyfeld's opinion had influenced her again, and she had held off on requesting them to survey Beerden at the next full moon, though she had not yet decided, and there was still time for her to do so. Procrastination was not usually in her character, but she felt herself to be dealing with great unknowns, and that a wrong move might be harmful. Sally's mysterious rescue and strange letter along with Luna's strange story continued percolating in her mind, against the backdrop of the historical disappearance of female werewolves and the seemingly deliberate disappearance of some accomplished witches from the Wizarding World, and she wondered how many of these things might be connected.

She had intended all along to visit the Hogwarts library again, though for the past two weeks she had been too busy. She was taking an intensive course in the language of the giants, because the Ministry was negotiating a new peace agreement with them, and she wanted to play a leading part in a planned delegation to their territory. There had been no such agreement since the war, when some giants had sided with Voldemort, and she believed there was an opportunity to open better communications that might lead to a more lasting resolution of conflict. But on the first evening she felt she could spare she visited the old school again, this time by way of Harry's fireplace, though she explained to him that she was eager to get to work and did not have much time for a chat. To talk to him about everything that was on her mind would take hours, and though she would have liked to do so, it was not her first priority.

This time Madame Pince was at her desk, and Hermione greeted her before walking into the stacks. She had decided that tonight she would go first to a section she had not tried on her previous visit: the relatively new field of Witch Studies, for which Madam Pince had only added a section during Hermione's last year at the school. It had been a small collection then, a concession to the changing times, but Hermione felt now that it was the subject of witches, even more than werewolves, that brought together the leads her mind was following.

There were still only a few shelves given to the subject, and as Hermione scanned them, her eye was immediately caught by a book that looked different. It was bound in what looked like deerskin, and there was no title on the spine. As soon as she picked it up her heart entered her mouth, because she immediately saw that the paper, which looked like it was handmade from some sort of plant fiber, looked the same as the paper on which Sally Wolvercote's letter had been written. The book was supple and looked as if it had been sewn together by hand. It was a beautifully crafted piece of work. Written in black ink on the title page were the words: _The Sorceress Tradition_.

Feeling nervous and excited, she took it over to the nearest desk and flipped through it. There was no table of contents. She turned to the first page and began to read:

> _The Sorceresses are a group of wise and powerful witches who have withdrawn from the Wizarding World over the centuries because we do not agree with the rule of wizards. We keep alive magical knowledge that was passed down among witches over the centuries, but often overlooked by wizards, who always assumed the wisest and most powerful person in the magical world to be male. The Sorceresses reject male dominance over women, human dominance over other beings, wizard or Muggle dominance over the other, and other forms of inequality and oppression._
> 
> _The Sorceresses live in magical mountain hiding places where we peacefully practice our magic and crafts. We do not seek conflict with wizards, but refuse to live under their laws, and if wizards try to find us, we will defend ourselves and the sanctity of our hiding places as necessary. It is therefore our wish that they not try to find us. Our most practiced craft is the cultivation of magical plants, and the related art of herbal healing. We honor animals and we all can take some animal form. Our most advanced magic involves transfiguration of our bodies into another form of their primary constituent: water into clouds._

Hermione had the feeling it was all coming together. She excitedly turned the page, and was startled to see on the next page a symbol that looked something like the Chinese symbol for yin and yang, which was known to reasonably well-informed wizards and Muggles the world over. Beneath it she read:

> _Our story has roots in the establishment of religion that called for the banning of witchcraft and wizardry. Some men insisted the universe must be ruled by a father god who tolerated no magic but his own. They insisted that this god resembled them and no other creature, and they believed that put them above all other creatures. They insisted that light must annihilate and vanquish darkness. But light and darkness, like female and male, like night and day, are equally essential parts of the whole._
> 
> _Not all worshippers of a father god were intolerant; their beliefs and practices have been diverse. But some religious people insisted that everyone should adopt their beliefs, and brutally tortured and killed people who did not agree. They also feared witchcraft, and many people, especially women, were tortured and murdered because they were suspected of it. Real witches survived such persecution, but many innocent Muggles died a horrible death because they were thought to be witches._
> 
> _Cast out and persecuted by the dominant society, some witches and wizards developed more dangerous magic to fight back. The Muggles' fear of "the Dark Arts" was in part self-fulfilling. There had always been dangerous magic, and occasionally witches or wizards would use it cruelly or irresponsibly. But witchcraft persecution provoked a greater interest in the Dark Arts on the part of witches and wizards, and the very characterization of magic as Dark and of darkness as evil influenced more of it to become so. Since witches in particular were targets of persecution, it was often magic that had traditionally belonged most to witches that became perverted in this manner._
> 
> _When wizards and witches separated from the Muggle world, Wizarding society retained many of its features, including patriarchy, arrogance toward other creatures, and the fear of Dark Magic, with some earlier witch traditions forgotten or rejected out of fear of the latter. The Wizarding World continued to produce Dark Wizards whose hatred of Muggles mirrored the hostility Muggles had shown toward witchcraft._

Hermione lowered the book. She could return to this later. The bit about magical plants had given her an idea about the origin of lunasturtia, though they probably did not call it that. She put the book down on the desk, pointed her wand at the ceiling and said, " _Accio poco werewolf flower!_ " The book did not move. She tried standing it upright on the desk and tapped the top side of the pages with her wand. When she opened it at the place that felt right, her heart pounded again. On the left page was a heading:

_The Sorceresses and the Werewolves_

Under that she read as follows:

> _Werewolves have not always been as they are now. Long ago, before humans became herders of animals, humans and wolves seldom attacked each other. Werewolves were beings who were sometimes in human form and sometimes in wolf form, and they were honored as magical beings. There were both male and female werewolves then, and when they mated they produced werewolf cubs._
> 
> _But the males were solitary hunters, and sometimes abandoned their cubs and their mates, for they did not live in packs as true wolves do. The females always wanted their young to be protected, so they sometimes sought refuge among the wolves, who were social, or in the world of other humans. So the male and female werewolves often separated. But the tolerance of other humans for werewolves declined, because without the influence of the females, some of the males would hunt humans, and a few of them had the trait that their bite would turn other humans into werewolves. The werewolves created through the bite retained this trait, and the males who were bitten could no longer control their attacking of humans. The bitten males had another new trait: they transformed only at the full moon._
> 
> _As the male werewolves became more dangerous, all werewolves became shunned by human society, and they reproduced more through the bite, for the females no longer mated with the males, since if they did there was no future for their cubs. The females usually joined wolf packs, and when they mated with wolves their offspring were wolves, but eventually they were shunned by the wolves as well, for humans had become the enemy of wolves, whom they hunted in some places to extinction. The biting males sometimes bit women and girls too, and the female bitten became werewolves, but they did not transform only at the full moon, nor did they have the associated dementia that made male werewolves want to attack humans when transformed. Since there was no longer any safe place for them, the first Sorceresses took the female werewolves under our protection and they have been with us ever since._

So here it was at last. Hermione was ready to take the book home, where she intended to read every word. She rose and carried it over to Madam Pince, who was behind the front desk.

"May I borrow this item?" she asked.

Madam Pince looked suspiciously at the oddly-bound book with no title on the cover. She ran her wand all over it, and her look of suspicion deepened.

"This was on one of our shelves?" she said.

"Yes, it was. In the Witch Studies section."

Madam Pince opened the book to ascertain the title, then opened a drawer in a large cabinet behind her and flicked through its contents with her wand. She turned to Hermione again, looking rather pale, with suspicion seemingly turning to suppressed anger.

"This book does not appear to belong to our collection," she said stiffly.

"Well, then..." Hermione began, but Madam Pince pursued her own train of thought.

"I don't know what teenagers are coming to these days, Miss Granger. They wear themselves out trying to undo the hexes on my books so they can steal them or return them late. They spend more effort trying to damage the hexes on the books than studying from them. They try putting counterjinxes on the books, and a couple of times they have succeeded! And is if that wasn't enough, now they are _adding_ books to my shelves without giving them to me for processing, so they will have no protective hexes! It's as if they're--experimenting with _socialism_ , or something!"

Hermione had to suppress a laugh at this, and also the comment that what Madam Pince was describing sounded more to her like anarchism.

"May I borrow the book, then? If you want to add it to your collection, I will return it to you for processing."

Madam Pince looked uncomfortable. "It should be processed first, Miss Granger. It will probably be ready by next week."

"Madam Pince, I have an urgent need to use this book in connection with my work. May I please borrow it now, if I promise to return it within two weeks?"

The librarian hesitated, looking as if she was experiencing some great internal conflict, and Hermione realized with a twinge of pity that it was a conflict between her sense of need and entitlement to control the library and a sense that Hermione was now her social superior and a person whose demands could not be refused.

"Very well, Miss Granger," she said with a stifled look, "but please do return it as soon as possible.

"I will. Thank you. Goodbye, Madam Pince." Hermione put the precious item in her bag and walked out of the library.

She felt like going for a walk to calm herself, and she made her way downstairs and out the front doors of the castle and onto the old grounds. She pulled her wool cloak around her as she stepped away from the warmth and light of the castle into the dark, cold November evening. It was a clear night and here in the country the sky was paved with stars. She turned to walk toward a view of the lake. A bright half moon hung in the southern sky, and soon she could see it reflected in the lake. _First quarter_ , she thought. In just a week it would be full. She had become very aware of the phases of the moon during her time in Werewolf Support Services.

This made her think of something else that had been nagging at the back of her mind. Her period was now almost two weeks late. She would have expected it soon after the night she had spent with Gillyfeld, which meant it was conceivable…it probably wasn’t time to worry yet, witches often had late periods, and yet hers had always been as regular as _—as the phases of the moon_. It might be worth doing a pregnancy test. She had the materials to make one at home, but only one that sometimes gave false positives. If she wanted a more reliable one she needed to buy it from an apothecary.

She realized what it was that bothered her most. She was self-conscious about buying it from an apothecary because everyone knew who she was and someone might see her and find out, and she was under so much scrutiny as to whether she was mature and responsible enough for the high position recently entrusted to her that she thought the knowledge that she had risked a pregnancy at a time like this might add to the sentiment against her. She thought that if she went to a Muggle chemist for a Muggle test, and anyone found out, they would say even worse things about her. The press had never had the slightest respect for her privacy. It was the sort of thing Rita Skeeter would have reported on. She resented having to feel this way about something like this in the twenty-first century, but she did. As if she were under surveillance.

She looked up at the stars again. She had never put much stock in divination, even the Centaur kind, but now she wished she knew how to read some useful message in the position of objects in the sky. She wondered whether the Sorceresses thought they could do it, whether it was part of their tradition. They probably made all their own potions. They specialized in herbal healing. Did they have a reliable pregnancy test potion and a safe abortion potion? Were they nearby, in the Scottish Highlands? Could she find them? But if they had separated themselves from men they probably never risked pregnancy. If they had wanted to help women in such a position, they probably would not have disappeared.

She had planned to go home again from Harry's office, which she had a spell to access. Harry had likely gone home himself by this time, to the home he shared with his family in the school's staff housing. She thought of dropping in on him and Ginny. She knew she was welcome there at any time, and she thought of confiding in Ginny about this latest concern. She might ask Ginny how she had felt when she first became pregnant. But she was even more eager to get home to continue reading the book, and she had some feeling, as with Sally's letter, that it was better not to tell anyone else about this. So she returned to the castle and let herself into Harry's office alone, and returned to her own home through the Floo Network.

That evening in bed she picked up the book again and read by lamplight. She returned to the passage about how certain types of Dark Magic had branched off from earlier witch magic and developed a more evil character than they had originally had in reaction to the persecution of witches. She came to a part with the heading "Fairyfyre," and read to her great interest that the Dark Magic Fiendfyre was a perversion of this older magic, and that Wizarding society had long ago suppressed the knowledge of making Fairyfyre because they so feared the creation of Fiendfyre. She read:

> _Fiendfyre was first created by a witch who cast a wandless Fairyfyre spell while Muggles were attempting to burn her at the stake. Her fury on behalf of her Muggle sisters who were tortured to death in this manner, and wish for revenge, combined with the evil intentions with which the surrounding fire had been set, caused the flames to combine into this terrible new form, and to chase after the perpetrators. Fiendfyre is beyond the control of the caster of the spell._
> 
> _Fairyfyre is as magically powerful as Fiendfyre but has very different properties. It burns with a pure white flame and does not consume the matter on which it burns. A witch is safe and warm in the region of the flame. Animals are therein safe from predators. It may be used in certain types of illuminating or visionary magic. Fairyfyre is safe when the caster of the spell intends no harm, and can only be spread with intention._

She was too tired to read more, but when she put out the light, her head was full of new information and new imagery. As she was drifting off to sleep, an idea was fomenting in her mind, a solution of the kind one has in dreams.

*** 

The following night in the Den, Will was arguing with Trackless.

"If I could convince you that wizards were lying to you to try to manipulate the werewolves in order to harm us and help themselves, wouldn't you reject what they're selling you and advise your friends to do the same?"

"My good man, you hardly have to convince me that wizards are lying to me, or witches either. I consider that the normal course of affairs."

At that moment there was a knock on the door, and the man closest to it rose and opened it a crack. He saw a rather short and tubby man in rumpled Muggle clothes, which were not uncommon for a werewolf. “Hello,” said Bentley. “Stokes is my name. I haven’t been here before, but I’m a werewolf, and would like to meet you all.” The other man opened the door and let him in.

“How is it we don’t know you?” said Trackless. “You can’t be that new, because there haven’t been any werewolf attacks in years, except one that recently killed a man.”

“I come from up north, and I kept a very low profile, hoping to keep it a secret, but I let my guard down when I heard about the Anti-Discrimination Act. I had a job for years, but my employer sacked me because of last month’s incident. He thinks the new policies are a mistake. Most employers do. I realized I might as well join you now.”

“Have a seat,” said Will, and Bentley sat down at one of the little tables.

“Where are you from?” said Trackless.

“West Hartlepool,” said Bentley. Reilly suddenly looked up and stared at the newcomer.

“Were you taking Wolfsbane Potion?” said Will.

“For a while, and it made me sick. Some of you have been sharper than I was. I’m not going to swallow that poison any more.”

“How about swallowing some whiskey?” said Finnegan from behind the bar.

“Thank you, I don’t mind if I do,” said Bentley, rising and going to the bar. Finnegan filled a glass for him, and Bentley took it and slipped him a few knuts, then returned to his seat and sipped at his whiskey.

“You’re in time for our next poker game,” said another werewolf. “Shall I deal you in?”

“There’s something I want to talk about first. I believe, as some werewolves do, that the current government is trying to poison us. I’m planning to go to Beerden at the full moon, and I would be proud if any of you would join me.”

“You were sacked because of last month's incident, and you want to create more such incidents, and help convince them that the current policy of encouraging our employment is a mistake?” said Trackless, looking at him curiously.

“Most of us don’t think the current government is against us,” said Will, “and I have friends who’ve been taking the potion safely for years.”

“Speak for yourself, Fitzgerald,” said the card dealer to Will.

“I’ve been cast out, and I can see things haven’t changed. I want revenge,” said Bentley.

“Hear, hear,” said Reilly in a mocking imitation of an upper-class accent, and it occurred to Bentley that he had not adequately studied or practiced the accent of the man he was impersonating.

“But why revenge on the lunasturtia gatherers?” said Trackless. "Why not on the employer who sacked you?”

“Beerden is werewolf territory, and the harvesters are part of the plot to poison us. We need to start by reclaiming our territory. If we go there in numbers they’ll have no chance against us, and it will be harder for them to find out who we are. If I killed my former boss I'd be caught and killed myself.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Trackless. “Wizards aren’t being taught to kill werewolves any more. Don’t you think you could take advantage of this deceptively soft but deluded government, and sink your teeth into the throat of your enemy?” Bentley recognized the quotation from his own propaganda.

“Our enemy has many parts. We need to attack first where they are weak, and build our strength.”

“I’m sure many werewolves will agree with such sensible advice. Meet us fifteen minutes before moonrise, at the great oak on the north side of Beerden. We’ll look forward to seeing you, Mr. Stokes,” said Trackless with a strange glint in his eye.

In that moment Bentley thought he knew, almost for certain, that Trackless knew he was not a werewolf. _Damn LeClair!_ He knew that not all werewolves were as stupid as LeClair insisted they were. He wondered whether he could still salvage the situation and gain their trust by being sociable, but on second thought, he realized that the longer he stayed the bigger a risk he ran of giving himself away. He downed the rest of the whiskey.

“Well, it’s been a long journey, and I think I’ll get some sleep,” he said. “Remember what I’ve said.” Some of the werewolves looked at him doubtfully as he made his exit. He would know better then to show up there again. As he walked back along Knockturn Alley, he pondered the situation.

_The way that old werewolf had looked at him._ He had a new thought that gave him hope. If they doubted him, one or more werewolves might show up at Beerden in order to make sure. He knew enough about werewolves to know that they would consider it a heinous offense for someone who was not one of them to pretend that he was, and would want to find out. If he was a werewolf they would want to find that out too. If they came to Beerden for whatever reason, he would have accomplished his purpose. Of course he wouldn’t go, but his disguise would be gone forever, and they would not know who he was.

But what of the other part of his mission? Putting someone under the Imperious Curse? That was a lot riskier. If the person survived they would return and tell whatever they knew. Everyone would know a non-werewolf wizard was involved, one who didn’t scruple to use Unforgivable Curses. There would be a record of it on his wand. An idea was growing on him that had first been planted the previous evening.

He now realized that Malfoy had a personal grudge against Gillyfeld that exceeded his own, and what he had heard of Gillyfeld’s pillow talk made it believable. He also realized that Malfoy had never forgiven him for failing to deliver Gillyfeld as a prisoner into his hands after saying that he would be easy to trap. Could it be that they were afraid someone might catch onto them and were setting him up as a fall guy?

He would not use the Imperius Curse. He was no Bellatrix Lestrange or Barty Crouch Jr. He did not intend to sacrifice himself for this cause or any other cause. The harvest might still be on, and if a werewolf came, and the incident brought down Granger, the Werewolf Act, or the whole government, he would not be displeased. _Come the full moon, we'll see what happens._


	12. The Whole Truth

_Sunday, November 13-Monday, November 14, 2005 -- Waxing Gibbous_

As another bloodless week went past, Hermione wondered increasingly whether it was possible she might be pregnant. She always felt queasy in the morning, which she knew was a common experience of pregnant women. The test she could make at home, the purple test, occasionally gave false positives but never false negatives. She was finally thinking that maybe it would be worth trying it, since if it was negative at least she could put her mind to rest on the matter.

She had an old potions book that included it, though with a disclaimer about its reliability, since it was harmless and could be useful in the case of a negative result when a better test was not available. She dug the needed ingredients out of various corners of her pantry and assembled them on her kitchen table. She put a cauldron on the stove and began measuring in the ingredients, lit a fire under the pot, and followed the directions about stirring and adding ingredients. Eventually it turned the indigo color that indicated it was ready. Hermione took one of the absorbent sponges she usually used when she was menstruating and dipped it in the potion. She carried it into the lavatory and slid it inside her. She knew that the color would not change if the result were negative, but that it would turn a maroon color in the other case. After a few seconds she removed it, and found the color had changed from the pretty indigo to an equally pretty reddish-purple, a positive result.

Since she lived alone, she had left the lavatory door ajar as she often did, and her female black cat, Isis, had stepped into the doorway and looked at her with what she oddly fancied was a look of solidarity. She rinsed out the sponge at the sink and put it away. What should she do next?

What if she really was pregnant? The Wizarding World had a spell for the termination of a pregnancy that caused embryonic matter to dissolve and be reabsorbed into the body of a pregnant woman, returning to her whatever nourishment it had taken. Its use was less controversial than abortion was in the Muggle world, although only qualified Healers and their assistants were trained and authorized to cast it. Until this moment it hadn’t occurred to her that any other course of action was possible for her if it turned out that she was pregnant, but as the need for a decision was looking more probable, she was not so sure.

The Sorceress book was giving her a new sense of her potential power as a witch and setting her imagination off in new directions. Now she thought of something else, her biological power as a woman, the power to bring forth life. The child of two such people as herself and him would be something very special, perhaps a gift to the world. She knew the next thing she must do was to consult the other person most concerned, her partner in this creative episode. Since he was a Healer, she could ask him to supply her with the better test. She hadn’t asked him before because she hadn’t wanted to worry him about what had earlier seemed like a remote possibility, but now appeared more likely.

It was Sunday and likely that he was not working, although since he worked at the hospital she wasn’t sure. She sent an owl to his home with a note saying that she needed to talk to him in person as soon as possible about something important. She soon received an answer that he was at home and that she was welcome to come over.

***

"What's going on, Hermione?" he said as soon as she stepped out of his fireplace.

“Steve, I think I may be pregnant.”

“Really?” he said in surprise. “Do you want me to perform the spell?” 

She was first perplexed, and then annoyed, by his apparent nonchalance. So perplexed and annoyed that she spoke more abruptly than she had intended.“But what if I want to have the baby?”

Gillyfeld was astonished. “You want to have a _baby_?” he said incredulously. As far as he was concerned this was no time in Granger’s career for her to take the necessary time off to have a baby. All freedom-loving creatures in the magical world were depending on her pulling off her new job. But when he saw she had turned red he realized what he must have sounded like, and that this was not the way to talk to a woman in such a position. He was a man and did not know, could never know, what it felt like to be carrying another life inside him.

“I’m sorry, I’m just so surprised,” he said. She still looked confused. “Hermione, are you sure? What test did you use?”

“The purple test."

“That one sometimes gives false positives. We have a much better one at the hospital. If you come with me I can give it to you now.”

She hesitated.

“Hermione, don’t you think we should be sure of what we’re dealing with before we put much energy into deciding what to do about it?”

She observed that although he said “we” he sounded like a Healer, not like a lover. She felt a need to be out of his presence in order to rethink the situation. "I can't come to the hospital now," she said.

"You can get it from an apothecary, then, or come when it's convenient for you. Let me know if I can help."

"I'll see you later," she said, and turned to walk out his front door. She didn't feel like using his fireplace. He didn't say anything more or hinder her as she walked out the door, down the steps of his building and out into the street. She felt like walking and walked a good part of the way home, but then, fearing that Apparating might be unsafe in her condition, she boarded a Muggle bus, something she had not done in years.

When she stepped back into her own hallway, Isis mewed and rubbed against her leg. Hermione shed an involuntary tear. Animals were the only people who never hurt her feelings. _What had she been expecting?_

A greater level of interest, perhaps? Something more like tenderness? He had showed plenty of that on the night they were together, or so she had thought. He had been so affectionate. He had always seemed to her like a such a caring person -- _until she told him something he didn't want to hear_ , she thought grimly. There were witches who said that all wizards were selfish at heart. She had never believed in such over-generalizations, but now she felt where they were coming from.

It occurred to her that perhaps his behavior that night had not reflected any particular feelings for her, but just his personality, and he would have been the same way with any woman who had done him the favor of going to bed with him. Any woman he liked, anyway, and there were probably lots of women he liked, amiable as he was. There had been no talk of a relationship. She hadn't inquired whether he was interested in one, or even whether he was really unattached, and the fact was starting to break into her consciousness that she hadn't inquired because she hadn't really wanted to know. She had wanted him so much at that moment that she hadn't wanted to take a chance on losing it. If he had forgotten the contraceptive spell, so had she, and he probably thought she was using other means, especially since it had been her idea to spend the night with him. She couldn't fairly accuse him of any wrongdoing.

So what had she been thinking? She was in love with him and had been looking for a sign that he felt the same way towards her and now believed she had found out the opposite. It had all been so unplanned, so unlike her. This was not the old Hermione Granger. She had made a promise to herself when she was only a child that she would never have unprotected sex unless she positively wanted to become pregnant, and this had not been such a time. The work she wanted to do now was at her job, and this was not the time for her to take leave of that, particularly to be a single parent.

And if he didn’t love her…there had been a man who did, and who had wanted more than anything to have children with her. Remembering what it had been like to be truly loved, she suddenly missed Ron, and yet she also remembered the reasons she had sometimes felt stifled by that relationship. Whether the universe was returning to her something she had dished out to someone else, she did not know. What she did know was that she had made a decision about what to do.

She still felt self-conscious about buying the other test from an apothecary. She might as well get it from him, since if she was pregnant, she could ask him for help with that as well. At least she knew that he was a competent Healer and that he wouldn't tell anyone. She felt stupid about the whole business, but it would soon be over.

***

Gillyfeld had noticed that Granger seemed disappointed and hurt. He was not usually in the business of asking a pregnant woman anything except what type of medical help she wanted. Only when she had left did it occur to him that it was likely that she had not had any other partners recently but him, and that she had come to him with this news not because he was a Healer but because he was the father of her child, if there was one. He would need to rethink the situation. He would go directly to the hospital in case she might decide to come there after all.

When he arrived he stopped in first at the apothecary, where Izzy was behind the counter.

“Morning, Izzy,” he said.

“Good morning, Dr. Steve,” said Izzy, brightening, since seeing Gillyfeld was often the the high point of his often stressful but boring day.

“Can you spare any pregnancy tests? I like to keep some in my office for the sake of privacy, because sometimes someone doesn’t want to be seen asking for one here. You know, some of my younger patients…”

“Of course,” said Izzy. Who would know more than a werewolf about the wish to keep something secret? “Let me go to the storage area and see how many we’ve got.” He went to another room behind the counter and came out with several boxes. “Here you are.”

“Thanks, Izzy.”

Gillyfeld's thoughts were increasingly turbulent as he made his way to his third floor office in Potion and Plant Poisoning and sat down at his desk. He had a hard time believing this was happening. Granger was not someone he would have expected to risk an unplanned pregnancy, and since on the night they were together she had neither cast the contraceptive spell nor asked him to, he had supposed she was taking a potion. Her wanting to have a child now surprised him even more, and he continued to think this was very bad timing from her point of view, and hoped she would come to her senses, though it was her decision to make.

If she did not come to her senses, he was willing to pay whatever she considered to be his share of child support, but he did not think she could reasonably demand that he become her permanent partner or take a very active role in parenting, considering the whole thing was unwanted by him, and that there was such an easy way out. It had been her idea to spend the night with him. There had been no talk of a relationship, let alone children. He did not feel it reasonable that she should spring such a thing on him. She was young and would have other chances to have children. Why on earth did it have to be... _his_?

Then he had another thought. Was it possible that she had fallen in love with him and was doing this to try to trap him? _Hermione Granger?_ He would not have believed it. It was a classic female type of manipulation. If any feelings she had about him would cause her to forget her pride and throw away her independence, he doubted they could be healthy ones. But the idea that she might be in love with him made him feel increasingly troubled...why was he so sure he was not prepared to become a father?

The thing that was really troubling him most came to the front of his mind: it was Bette Barbary. What would _she_ think of him? A Healer the cause of an unwanted pregnancy? Unwanted by him, anyway. He might lose her if he took to raising a child with someone else, and lose her good opinion if he took a less responsible course of action. Had he lied by omission in not telling Granger he was interested in someone else? It wasn't as if he and Barbary were yet a couple. Had he really done anything wrong?

He thought defensively. Granger was an adult. She had known what she was doing. It had been her idea. He had given her something she wanted. He had done his best to make her feel good. Was he being punished for that? Was it to be expected that he should refuse? Wouldn't anyone else have done the same?

Here he caught himself. This was not the old Steve Gillyfeld. He had never judged what was right by what other people did, but acted according to his own moral sense, and for this reason had often felt that he was more honest and principled than most of the people around him. He and Granger had not talked of a relationship, but the fact was breaking in on his consciousness that he had not inquired about her feelings about this because he had not really wanted to know. She had expressed serious feelings about him, and for him to assume it had been a one night stand had not been very rational, only self-serving. He had been wrong not to tell her there was someone else, even if it had not yet gone far, considering how serious his feelings about the other person were.

And not to check in about contraception? He advised all his patients always to do so. He was no less responsible than she was for this. What excuse was there for a Healer not to do as he advised his patients? He even advised them to use a simple Muggle device that also protected against sexually transmitted diseases, though this advice was generally ignored, because the Wizarding World had a different set of diseases and its common STDs all had magical cures. Few wizards would admit to ever sleeping with Muggles, but he knew it sometimes happened, and that wizards were not as immune to Muggle diseases as they imagined they were, any more than they were immune to any other crisis facing the human race.

Steve Gillyfeld was not a man who ever strayed far from his conscience for long, and it was now telling him that he had been entirely to blame. He could only do what was right now. If Hermione really was pregnant, and really did want to have the baby, he would have to tell both women the whole truth and take the consequences, whatever they turned out to be. If he lost his love over this, perhaps it was a lesson he should have learned by this time in his life. In this very sober frame of mind he nervously awaited Hermione's next move.

***

When Hermione entered his office she saw that he looked pale and nervous. It was a look she had never seen in him before. She had thought to tell him immediately of her decision, but remembering that he was a Healer who had engaged her in unprotected sex, some impish impulse made her decide to let him sweat for a few more minutes. He held out a box to her.

"The instructions are inside," he said.

"I know," she said, taking the box and putting it in her bag.

"Down the corridor to the left, just around the corner is a lavatory."

"Thanks," she said, and walked out the door. She returned about fifteen minutes later.

“Negative,” she said, and saw him exhale.

“Are you alright?” he said.

“Yes. Are you?”

At this she saw a trace of his usual humor returning to his face. “Hermione, you’ll have other chances to have children if you want them. Don’t you think you have enough on your plate right now?”

“Yes, of course. But you know, this isn’t a decision any woman takes lightly.”

“No, though it's easier here than in the Muggle world. It’s too bad Muggles can’t come here for health care.”

"Aren't they occasionally brought here if they get hurt by something magical? Their memories can be modified afterwards."

Again the momentary dark look crossed his face, and he looked away. She followed his gaze out the window and saw some Muggle traffic passing in the street far below. It was a world she seldom gave much thought to any more.

"Do you mind if I ask what made you think you were pregnant?” he said. "You missed your period?"

"It's almost three weeks late, but it isn't just that. I always feel sick in the morning."

"Sick to your stomach?"

"Yes."

"Have you been vomiting?"

"No, just not eating."

"Not eating in the morning? Are you able to eat later in the day?"

"No, I really don't have much appetite at all."

"Since when don't you have much appetite?" He noticed that she did look like she had lost some weight.

"Since--" No, not since she'd been with him. "Since the catastrophe."

"Which catastrophe?"

"The full moon."

A look of comprehension was dawning in his face.

“Hermione, did you know that malnutrition can cause your menstrual cycle to shut down? If you’re not eating anything your body may decide it’s not a good time for a pregnancy.”

She felt foolish and relieved at the same time. Could the explanation be as simple as that? But when she looked at him again she saw that he looked worried.

“It doesn't usually happen so fast. Have you really been starving yourself?”

“Pretty much,” she said, only realizing as she said it that it was true.

"When was the last time you ate?" He was looking at her with pure concern, looking more like the man she had fallen in love with.

She tried to remember. "I think I had a banana yesterday afternoon."

He glanced at the clock, which showed ten minutes to twelve. "I was just thinking of going out for some lunch. Why don't you join me? There's a little place I walk to from here that I think you'd like. I think they've got something that will bring back your appetite."

"No, I think I'd better go home," she said in some confusion, looking toward the door. But when she looked back at him he hadn't budged, nor his expression changed.

"Please have lunch with me. Just do me this one little favor, Hermione."

_This man is going to drive me nuts_ , she thought. But she also realized he was right: if she went home now she still wouldn't eat anything. "OK," she said dully.

He went to a closet to retrieve his jacket. He started toward the door, but she did not follow. He held out his hand to her. His expression was compassionate. She realized that if she had taken it, he would have led her by the hand out the door and down the corridor of the hospital without caring how this looked to anyone else. _I'm a patient to him now_. She moved to follow him, making it clear the hand was unnecessary.

She followed him down the corridor to a lift, and they descended to the ground floor and out of the department store window into the street. He steered her into another street at the end of the block, and then down a couple of smaller ones, and stopped in front of what looked like a Muggle delicatessen in a neighborhood that was unfamiliar to her. There were a variety of meats, pastries and salads in the window, and she caught the smell of hot food as a man opened a door to exit the place.

"Let's see if we can find a table--this is a popular lunch spot for folks who work in this area," said Gillyfeld.

She followed him through the door and they were pleased to spot an empty booth near the back, which would give them some privacy. As soon as they were seated he said, "I'll go and order at the counter, shall I? I have an idea of what might be easiest on your digestion. Would you trust me to order for you? I'm a qualified Healer, you know." He looked rather merry as he said this.

"Please do, but don't be offended if I'm not able to eat much of it, whatever it is."

"Of course not." He went up to the counter and ordered their food, then returned with a playing card, the four of clubs, stuck in a little metal stand. "They will bring it to our table," he explained.

As they waited for their food, Hermione observed the other customers, who were clearly Muggles. The idea that Gillyfeld would sometimes eat his lunch in a Muggle restaurant did not really surprise her that much, but she wondered whether his green Healer's uniform, which he was not wearing today, ever attracted attention. Probably not, since he could easily put something else over it. Eventually a waitress came and placed a plate of liver and onions in front of him and a tureen of soup in front of her, from which she saw she was to eat directly. She took off the lid and the smell of homemade chicken soup wafted into the air.

She looked in the bowl and saw what looked like a few bits of chicken, pieces of carrot, and a couple of spherical dumplings of some sort. She took a spoonful of the broth and blew on it, because it was very hot, and then swallowed it. She looked up and saw Gillyfeld was watching her. He smiled encouragingly. The annoyance she might have felt at the idea that she was being treated like a child was mitigated by the pleasure she always felt in being the object of his caring or approving attention, and by the realization that the broth was very tasty. She took another spoonful, then another, and he began to eat his own meal.

She found to her surprise that she was able to eat a piece of carrot, and then a piece of meat. She curiously took a spoonful of the off-white ball, which was also delicious. "You must have been right," she said, "I seem to be getting an appetite as I start to eat."

"Didn't you ever hear of Subtraction Soup?" he said. "It's a classic witch's brew. The more you eat the hungrier you get."

He had to be joking. She knew this was chicken soup. He was looking at her with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. It was a look that she found irresistible, so she looked down at the soup again, which was oddly comforting. The next time she looked up, she saw that he had taken out a piece of parchment and a quill and seemed to be making a list.

"As long as you're having difficulty eating, there's a product you can get at any wizard apothecary that will give you most of the nutrition you need. It's called Nutrotion, and they sell it in single-serving bottles. I've also written down the names of a few herbs I think you should add in for complete nutrition." He passed the parchment across the table to her.

"Thank you," she said.

"You are alone, aren't you?" he said.

"Yes."

"Have you thought of staying with any family or friends for a spell? It's easier to eat when you're with others, if your spirits are low. It's hard to battle such a state of mind in isolation."

She did not disagree; the fact that she was now eating confirmed what he was saying. But with whom else could she stay? Going back to her parents now was unthinkable, and it would not be comfortable for her at the Weasleys with Ron still not really over their breakup. She felt it would be too much of an imposition to ask Harry and Ginny, who had two children and a small home. For an instant she wondered why he didn't ask her to stay with himself, if he cared as much as it seemed he did, and it occurred to her that perhaps there was someone else in his life with whom her being around would complicate matters. If that was the case, it might account for a number of things.

"Would you like to come back to the hospital to get the Nutrotion and herbs?" he said as the waitress deposited their check.

"I think I'll go straight home. There's an apothecary near my flat."

"How will you get home?"

She had thought of Apparating, but considering that she had just eaten her first proper meal in weeks, it occurred to her that she might lose it if she tried that.

"I guess I'll take Muggle transit," she said.

"I think it's wise," he said. "There's a bus stop on the way to the hospital, if you want to walk back with me." He paid the check and they walked out into the street again.

When they reached the bus stop he paused. "Do you have a good book?" he said. "I find if things are getting me down, there's nothing that can take me out of it as much as a good book...especially fiction..."

"As a matter of fact, I'm reading a very interesting book."

"That's great. I'll see you later. Take good care, Hermione." He resumed his walk back to the hospital. A few minutes later the bus came. For the second time in a day, and also in years, Hermione boarded a Muggle bus.

When she arrived at her home, she realized what she needed to do, and that the time was now. She needed to tell him how she felt about him, and get a truthful answer. If her feelings were not returned, she needed to know, so she would put aside all hope, and not see him for some time, or he would keep breaking her heart. And in case he did not know, and was interested, happiness might await. She went to her writing desk and took out a piece of parchment and a quill, and wrote the following letter:

_Dear Steve,_

_I think we owe it to each other to be completely honest about our feelings about each other. I have feelings about you that I realize may not be returned. But please believe this: I never intended to become pregnant or to use this to try to manipulate you. Only, when I thought I might be, the thought that it would be the child of a man I love made me think twice about what to do next._

_I feel about you more than I have felt about any other wizard, that given our shared values and optimistic, active natures, that you are one that I would be happy to share my life with. I know we never discussed it, and I understand that you may not feel the same way, or be interested in a relationship, or there may be someone else in your life, for all I know. But please tell me the whole truth, or I will end up being hurt more. If you are not interested in me this way I will accept it and move on. If you are, then you will be pleased to know how I feel._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

She could not rest after having written this, but went out walking until she saw a post owl delivering something at another wizard home, and she managed to convince it to take her letter. She thought of going back to read the Sorceress book, which seemed to belong to a different world, a different existence from the one she was in today. She would save that for night. She didn't feel like going home now, so she continued walking. At some point raindrops began to fall, and as they fell faster, she conjured an umbrella, since she had not thought to carry one.

When she arrived back at her front door, there was a letter in the letterbox. She picked it up excitedly, and also with some trepidation. As she expected, it was his reply. She took it into her living room and opened it, then as she started reading, wandered into her bedroom.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Thank you for your kind words. Of course I am flattered, and of course I believe you about the pregnancy. I apologize for my own lapse in responsibility, which is not what should be expected from a Healer. The truth is that I am not interested in being your partner. I am very sorry if I have done anything to hurt you, which was the last thing I intended. Since as you say we never discussed any future between us, I honestly did not know you were seeking or expecting any. I thought you just wanted a shoulder to cry on so to speak, which everyone needs at some time. It happens that I am seriously interested in someone else, although it has not yet gone far, only something I am hoping for. It happens to be someone my own age. You are young and are a wonderful person and will surely find someone else if you want to. If you think I have behaved badly in this matter, I can only say that maybe I am not as great a person as you thought I was, and I hope that will make it easier for you to let go of me._

_You say you want me to be completely honest about my feelings about you. I never felt as much as you did that we have the same ideas. Like you, I came from the Muggle world, but unlike you, I have always stayed very close to my Muggle family and never came to terms with the Wizarding Statute of Secrecy, much less memory modification. My parents are my parents, and my being a wizard did not change that. I do not consider wizards to be any more intelligent or mature than Muggles, and I think it is condescending to think that we should know about them but they can't handle knowing about us. I guess you feel differently if as a teenager you modified your parents' memories to the degree of making them think they were someone else and packed them off to Australia for their own protection, as if they could not have the situation explained to them and decide for themselves what they should do. This seems to me like a reversal of the usual relationship between parents and children, and I doubt I would even treat my children that way._

_There is nothing more important to me than mind freedom, other than the idea that all human beings should be treated equally. When I opened the clinic at St. Mungo's for Azkaban survivors, I fought to change the way patients with psychological problems were treated, because in the past they had not been listened to but usually given potions that would make them easier for the staff to handle, regardless of what they said about it. I wanted to give them back control over their lives, not see it slip away as I had seen before with mental patients who had sometimes been made worse by inappropriate treatment._

_I believe deeply that there is nothing more liberating than the truth, and that to alter someone's memory is a violation of their freedom. Once during the war I modified the memory of a Muggle man who had survived a Death Eater attack, only so he would forget what he had just seen, and it was the hardest thing I ever did._

_If I have dwelled here on the things I think we feel differently about, it is because I think we know and have discussed the many important things we agree about. Be assured that I respect and appreciate your courageous work at the Ministry, but you see why I would not have been tolerated there (I was barely tolerated at the hospital)._

_Your friend,_

_Steve_

The first paragraph of this letter did not upset her, in fact it was more or less what she had been expecting. But as she read the rest of it, she found herself becoming increasingly angry, a sense of outrage growing on her. So he did not believe in memory modification, but had done it on a stranger when necessary, and he assumed that this had been more difficult for him than modifying her parents' memories had been for her? What did he know about what it had cost her to cause the people who had brought her into this world and raised her to forget that she had ever existed? If it had not been the hardest thing she had ever done, the only thing that could compare with it had been...

Telling Ron she was leaving him? Thinking of that brought an even more painful memory to her mind. When Ron had walked out on Harry and herself during their mission against Voldemort, she had had to suffer his accusation that she was betraying him for Harry because she refused to betray their mission...he had left partly out of jealousy...part of the complication of being female at the same time as being their comrade-in-arms...or what about being tortured with the Cruciatus Curse at the Malfoy Manor, with the prospect of being eaten alive by Fenrir Greyback, who had been promised the chance to finish her off, because she was a Muggle-born _and_ a young woman? Or sitting in disguise at a meeting of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, watching people like herself being sentenced to Azkaban, while not even knowing whether she would get out of there before her disguise wore off and everyone saw her there? What did he know about ANY OF THAT?

The memory of Ron's moment of weakness made her think of the unique part she had played in their fight, the fight for which Harry had gotten almost all the glory. She had been the only one who had stood by Harry throughout his entire mission. She had been Harry's right hand, or more accurately his left brain, throughout his struggle with Voldemort, and he couldn't possibly have done it without her. How much did Gillyfeld even know about that?

He had been an adult during the war, and only as wanted by the Death Eaters as any other Muggle-born wizard. She had only been seventeen, hardly an adult in her parents' eyes, and they would never have left Britain without her knowing the danger she was in. They would have been captured and tortured to death unless she had given up her mission, and Voldemort would have extracted information from them that would have been disastrous, and then killed them anyway. The same would have been their fate if they had not realized how immense was the danger.

What else could she have done? If she had tried to hide them with magical protection, and not modified their memories, she would have made them prisoners, taking away their freedom even more, and they would have gone mad with worrying about her. _Yes they could have handled it, they could have handled it just fine_ , she thought with bitter irony.

Supposing she _had_ given up her mission? Supposing she had accompanied her family to safety? His own precious family would be dead or enslaved, if not yet then soon enough. Gillyfeld himself and his precious mental patients would all be lunatics in Azkaban, if they were even still alive. So much for their _mind freedom._ She had saved _all of them_ from such a fate, and here was his thanks! To accuse her of not loving her parents!

" _Merlin's balls!_ " she cried, picking up the timepiece from her nightstand and throwing it across the room, where it hit and cracked a mirror. Isis, who was a magical black cat, arched her back when she saw the broken mirror, and her fur stood up on end. This only angered Hermione more, and she went into her kitchen and started systematically breaking all her dishes. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that she was a witch and could easily repair them all again.

When her rage was somewhat vented and fatigue started to slow her down, she returned to the cracked mirror in her bedroom, thinking to repair that first, but then she paused and looked at the attractive though now rather disheveled young woman reflected in it. She tried to imagine seeing herself through _his_ eyes. What had he seen or not seen in her?

She had to admit that it was true they were very different. From the time she had joined the Wizarding World, even from before she had arrived at Hogwarts, she had put all her energy into succeeding in this new world in which she feared some deficit from her Muggle background might cause her to fail. Before the beginning of her first year at the school she had tried to cram all the knowledge she feared she had missed by not having been raised as a witch, and this fear of failure had stayed buried somewhere in her psychology long after it was evident from her level of accomplishment that it was not necessary. To the Muggle world she had never looked back.

She suspected he had not been like this. She knew he cared little what either colleagues or superiors thought of him, and wondered whether he had always been that way. She could imagine him at school, probably doing his homework if and when he was interested in it, which probably was often enough, curious and hardworking as he was, and looking down on students like herself who felt it was necessary to get a good mark on every single exam or homework assignment they were given. Her compulsion to do well by standards set by others, even while fighting back against things she did not agree with, had persisted into her adult life, where she feared a job performance evaluation of anything less than outstanding, even when she knew the people judging her were less intelligent than she was.

From what Gillyfeld had told her of his life, he had broken rules he did not agree with, while she had always set herself the laborious task of working through legal channels to try to change them. She knew that he owed his success as a Healer entirely to his dedication to his patients, and would do what he thought was right for them regardless of anyone else’s directions. She admired him for that. But did any of this give him reason to look down on her?

Had she been any different from the way she was, had she not crossed all those “t’s” and dotted all those “i’s”, she would not be in her present position, the one from which she was now effecting meaningful change. Hers was not a job he could have done, for as he said, he did not belong at the Ministry. And there had been another reason, one he did not experience, for her to feel she could not afford to miss a beat…

She felt that, individual though he was, there was some piece of his self-confidence that was made possible by his gender, and that it was something he might not be aware of, as people who had any kind of privilege tended to take it for granted. Being female in a society that, though many wizards did not realize it, was still sexist, had affected her in some ways that he might never completely understand. The realization was growing on her that until now she had always looked up to him as a superior and assumed that he knew more than she did, and that she did so no longer. This change of perception left her feeling sad and disillusioned, but also liberated, as if she had been released from a spell. As if she had been drunk for a few weeks and was now sober, she felt like her old self again, in the lonely position of having no one to look up to, for no one else understood as much as she did.

“I can’t rely on anyone but myself,” she said aloud.

“Bloody right,” said a male voice, and she turned around. It had come from the direction of the newspaper article on the wall. It seemed to her that the man in the photograph had been looking at her, but as she came closer the man, though still animated, again seemed unable to see or hear her, as was usual in wizard photographs.

“ _Who are you?_ ” she said softly, intently, but there was no response, and she was not sure whether she had imagined something. She glanced around the room and her eye fell on Gillyfeld’s letter, which she had let fall to the floor. Slowly she walked over and picked it up, and with a calmer view of its contents, glanced through it again.

She knew that he had been a prisoner in Azkaban for months, something he did not mention in his letter, and this was one type of suffering she herself had never experienced. If keeping his sanity in Azkaban had been less difficult for him than modifying the memory of a stranger, this spoke to how deeply he felt about the issue. She did not want to write to him in anger or give him a litany of the things she had been through. Thinking about the war was stirring other memories at the back of her mind. She was not the only one who had sacrificed or been misunderstood. She would sleep on it and answer his letter in the morning.

That night she felt as if her heart were carved out of stone. She kept tossing and turning and involuntarily sighing, not because of her thoughts, but because of the physical pressure this object seemed to exert on her lungs. She therefore had the impression that she had not slept much, if at all, but when she rose in the morning she felt surprisingly refreshed. She soon found that she had another feeling that she had not had for such a long time it took her a moment to identify it: _she was hungry_.

She went and looked in her pantry. The biscuits, tinned fish, and dried fruit were gone. She opened her icebox. Enchanted ice could last forever, but not the food it was protecting. She had not been grocery shopping in a long time. She found some eggs that were still good, but her bread had started to get moldy, and what fruit she had was spoiled. She decided to hard-boil a couple of the eggs, since she had nothing else to eat them with. When she had lit the stove she looked over and saw Crookshanks standing in the kitchen doorway with a dead mouse in his mouth, and suddenly she understood.

“Clever kitty,” she said. He only dropped the mouse when he saw her start to eat the eggs. When she was through eating she picked him up and carried him over to her writing desk. He sat on her lap while she wrote the letter that had been percolating in her mind since the night before. It read:

_Dear Steve,_

_At the time I modified my parents’ memories I felt that I had no choice. Dumbledore was dead and we needed to find and destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes or Voldemort would have been immortal. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and I were a trio, and Harry could not possibly have done it without our help. My parents would have tried to hinder me and I might have had to do something else to them to escape them. They would not have left Britain knowing the danger I was in, and they would have been captured and used as hostages and tortured to death unless I gave up my mission, and you may consider what would have happened to all of us, including your own family, if I had done that. Of course it was one of the hardest things I ever did, but I felt I had no choice. If you think I should have left it up to them, you are entitled to your own opinion._

_I am going to tell you a story in confidence. You probably know, since it is now common knowledge, that the Hogwarts Potions master, Severus Snape, was a Death Eater in his youth and changed sides, and then pretended to rejoin the Death Eaters so that he could spy on them for Dumbledore. You probably don’t know the reason he changed sides. Snape was in love with Harry’s mother Lily, who had at one time been his friend, but had long since parted company with him because of the direction his life was taking. Snape reported the prophecy to Voldemort that led Voldemort to try to kill Harry, but as soon as Snape found out that Voldemort thought the prophecy referred to Harry, he tipped off Dumbledore because he knew Lily was in danger. Dumbledore tried to protect the Potters but they were betrayed by one of their supposed friends. I hope you know that was Peter Pettigrew and not Sirius Black. Snape blamed himself for Lily’s death, and Dumbledore secretly extracted a promise from him for the rest of his life to do whatever it took to protect Harry from Voldemort._

_Snape was greatly lacking in personal charm and had no friends. He was nasty to Harry because he had hated Harry’s father, who had been his rival. No one really knew him except Dumbledore, and his attachment to the past was more than even Dumbledore knew. The fact that no one knew him, his talent for Occlumency, and his former status as a Death Eater made him the perfect person for the job he was assigned, in fact the only person who could possibly have done it. When Dumbledore was dying he demanded that Snape should kill him for several strategic reasons, one being that it apparently proved Snape’s loyalty to Voldemort beyond doubt. Dumbledore did not tell anyone else about this. Every single person still alive thought that Snape had betrayed Dumbledore, who had defended him against all of our suspicions. We all thought then that Snape was unspeakably evil. That was the sacrifice he made for us. But wait, it gets worse._

_When Harry had deflected Voldemort's curse in his infancy, a piece of Voldemort's soul had become lodged inside of him, and Voldemort could not be defeated for good without the destruction of this piece also. Dumbledore knew this but Harry did not. For this reason, Dumbledore's last order to Snape was that when Voldemort showed certain behavior, indicating his other Horcruxes were gone, Snape should deliver Harry to him, apparently to his death. Snape protested in vain. His commitment to the cause of defeating Voldemort had become such that when the time came he tried to carry out this order. Who can imagine what he felt, having already made the sacrifice of pretending to be a Death Eater again, at who knows what cost, pretending to be unspeakably evil, being detested by all of us, all to protect Harry, and then being ordered to deliver Harry to Voldemort? Yet he tried to do it._

_Harry witnessed Snape's death and got hold of his memories, and on finding out he was a Horcrux, surrendered himself to Voldemort, walking right into a group of sadistic Death Eaters to be killed. Voldemort tried and failed to kill Harry again because of some magical protection his mother's sacrifice had given him. Dumbledore had hoped this would be the case, but had not been sure. He had been particularly fond of Harry, but would have sacrificed him if that was what it took to defeat Voldemort._

_Snape didn’t want to rejoin the Death Eaters. Lupin didn’t want to spy on the werewolves. Snape didn’t want to kill Dumbledore. Dumbledore didn’t want to sacrifice Harry. Harry didn’t want to surrender himself. Snape didn’t want to try to bring Harry to Voldemort. I didn’t want to cause my parents to forget that I had ever existed. My point is that people are often called upon to do things in wars that they couldn't even conceive of doing under other circumstances. I was such a person, and maybe you were too. A good example is killing people, which otherwise normal people often do in wars, and they have to live with the memory of it for the rest of their lives. The damage this matter did to my relationship with my parents was my most lasting loss. I am genuinely happy for you that you have stayed close to your family and that your being a wizard did not separate you from them._

_Be assured that I no longer have any designs on you as a lover. I hope what has happened in the past will not interfere with us being allies in the future in our efforts to make the world better._

_Yours truly,_

_Hermione Granger_

Hermione put the letter out to be picked up by the owl post. She would be late for work, but could easily make up the time. She stepped into her fireplace with a whispered prayer of thanks that her boss was not a micromanager. When she returned home that evening she found a letter in her letterbox. Seeing it was from Gillyfeld, she took it into her study and sat down to read it. It read:

_Dear Hermione,_

_Thank you for your letter. It was very interesting. I’m sorry if I never expressed my gratitude to you for the part you played in saving all of our lives._

_I myself narrowly missed being tortured to death at the hands of sadistic Death Eaters. One of the Death Eaters who captured me confunded the two others with him, and I gathered from their conversation that their orders had been to take me in for interrogation. You know what that would have meant for a Muggle-born wizard. He hid me in Azkaban instead. I will never know why a Death Eater risked his life to spare mine. Never give up on the human race._

_I also hope that we will always be friends and allies._

_Love,_

_Steve_

Finally, the word. _Maybe he says it now because he knows there’_ _s no chance I_ _’ll get the wrong idea_ , she thought. _Or maybe he wants it to be the last._ She put his two letters in a parchment envelope and magically stashed it where, like the man who was too fresh in her memory, it would be beyond her reach.


	13. Full Moon

_Tuesday November 15-Wednesday November 16, 2005_

When Hermione arrived in her office the following morning, which happened to be the morning before the full moon, there was a memo from Werewolf Support Services on her desk. It read:

_John Willows is still alive and still hangs around in the Den. After he became a werewolf he changed his name to Trackless. Perhaps an indication that he didn't want to be found?_

This explained why the wizard in the photograph had looked familiar to her, but decades of hard living had changed him so much that it wasn't surprising that she hadn't recognized him. There was no point in her troubling him now by bringing up painful memories. She did her best to return to her work, but had difficulty not being distracted by her anticipation of the coming night. She thought the staff of Werewolf Support Services also seemed nervous, despite the cancellation of the harvest, and the fact that she was no longer sharing with them most of the things that were on her own mind.

As the afternoon was beginning to darken, a Crup courier made a noise at her office door, and she took a letter from it that she was surprised to see was from Harry at Hogwarts. She opened it and read:

_Hermione,_

_John was gathering potion ingredients in the Forbidden Forest, and he found lunasturtia growing there! He picked some and hurried back to tell me. He says there's lots of it near the creek north of the oak grove in the northwest quarter. He isn't going back there tonight, as it may not be safe, but he knew you would want to know._

_Love,_

_Harry_

Hermione felt something warm up inside her. Darkness had already fallen on Hogwarts, and John Brewster, the Potions master, must have been gathering full moon ingredients. Was lunasturtia growing there because it was another werewolf haunt? She had always believed the old rumor of werewolves in the Forbidden Forest had been caused by the outings of the Marauders. She suspected someone had planted it there, and now she had an idea who it might have been. Besides being great news in itself, Harry's note might give her a pretext for leaving work early with a half-truth about where she was going. She went to share the good news with the WSS staff.

When she arrived at the Werewolf Support Services area she saw through the window to the staff room that Forrester and the werewolf capture team were playing gobstones, which they hastily tried to hide when she knocked on the door. Forrester opened it, looking embarrassed. She smiled at them reassuringly.

"We don't like to just sit here worrying," a member of the capture team spoke up.

"I agree wholeheartedly," said Hermione. "I have some good news." She produced Harry's note. "The Hogwarts Potions master, John Brewster, has found lunasturtia growing in the Forbidden Forest."

There were some exclamations of surprise.

"Do you want us to put out a call to the harvesters, in case any are still available?" said Forrester.

"You mean the former harvesters? No, I don't. We have already announced that that job will in future be done by staff members trained in Werewolf Emergency Services. Lunasturtia is a perennial plant, and if it's there tonight, it will be there in the future. Professor Brewster has already harvested some, and I am going up there to collect it, and to hear his account first hand. I will be leaving shortly. I hope you will not be called out tonight, but if you are, I have confidence that you will do what is required."

Some of the team members looked doubtful, and the one who had spoken up before did so again.

"With all due respect, Ms. Granger, Professor Brewster knows as much as anyone about handling lunasturtia, and I don't see why you need to go up there tonight. You're not a trained werewolf handler yourself, so I hope you don't propose to do anything reckless."

"I have other business at the school, so I might as well check on his findings," she said. "I had not planned to stay here this evening. I have confidence in you. May the night go well."

She left them still looking rather doubtful, but she felt they would have to concede that she was no longer in their section and might have other business that they would not know, though in truth, all her business this evening concerned werewolves. She was eager to get to Hogwarts as soon as possible, but not for the reason she had said. She had already told Harry she planned to come and would need to use his fireplace again.

She left her department and took the lift to the Atrium, where she exited through one of the fireplaces. When she came out of Harry's, he was there to greet her.

"Where's the lunasturtia?" she said.

"John's preserving it. You didn't come up here for that, did you? You know he knows at least as much as anyone about making the Wolfsbane Potion." Brewster had been the first wizard to make the potion after the war, using what became the new standard recipe, which was Snape's secret recipe found among his papers.

"No, I told you before I was planning to come."

"You didn't say why. You need to use that magical section of the library that only appears on the night of the full moon?" he teased.

"No," she said, and something in her closed and serious expression seemed to alarm him.

"Don't do anything stupid, Hermione. You're not going into the forest alone, are you?"

"I am not doing anything stupid," she said. "Do you remember what it was like to be entrusted with a secret?"

"When I was entrusted with a secret, it wasn't a secret from you," Harry pointed out with some sadness. "We were in it together. I couldn't keep a secret from you for long, even if I tried."

"I miss being in it together with you," she said sincerely, "and we'll always remember those times, but we have other lives now. Trust me?"

He nodded. Then the two old friends embraced.

"Goodbye, Harry. Love to your family." He looked worried again as she walked out his office door.

She left the castle by the closest exit she could find, and walked briskly across the grounds toward the Forbidden Forest. She struck north of the path to Hagrid's house, and headed for the little graveyard at the forest edge. It was usually deserted on the night of the full moon, because witches and wizards feared the presence of werewolves, who often visited the Lupin grave at other times. But as she came nearer, Hermione saw a witch on a broom flying low over the cemetery, and she realized it was Andromeda Tonks, who also often visited her daughter's grave.

"Andromeda!" she called out, but the other witch was speeding away and did not hear her. Andromeda had taken to tearing around on her broom like wild thing lately. 

Hermione walked in among the graves and had just reached her destination, which also was the grave of Remus and Tonks, when something else in the sky caught her attention. A shooting star seemed to be falling out of the sky, and then disappeared, and then there were several more, and she realized it was a meteor shower. She checked the astronomical forecast every day, and there had been nothing about a meteor shower this evening. It was possible for a wizard to create one, but it was difficult and usually reserved for very special occasions. As she stared at the sky she thought she saw a tiny black speck moving. Curious, she took out her wand and conjured a spyglass. Through it she saw that the speck was indeed a human figure flying away on a broom. Was everyone going barmy at the full moon? If so, she thought, perhaps she was no exception.

She turned back to earth, to the pure white flame on the grave that seemed to burn on nothing.

_It does not consume the matter on which it burns_

She stuck her forefinger in it, and as she expected, there was no pain. She withdrew the finger and examined it in the magical light, and as she expected, there was no burn. She sensed a fluttering of wings nearby. A small brown owl had landed on the tombstone and seemed to be observing her. It looked to her as if it knew what was happening, but that was the way owls looked, the reason they had a reputation, even in the Muggle world, for being wise.

_It can only be spread with intention_

Did that mean only the intention of the caster of the spell, or did her own intention matter? Would the caster of the spell have intended that she should use the flame? She took out her wand again and, concentrating on her reason for seeking to use the fire, stuck its tip in the flame. Her heart beat faster as she withdrew it. It was alight, carrying its own magical white flame while remaining undamaged.

She did not know whether even such a flame as this could survive an Apparition or even a broom flight, and she did not have time for the latter. She had already decided on the only possible one of her several bad options for transportation. She carried her torch to the perimeter of the grounds, and found her way to the gate and to the road outside. She passed it to her left hand as she flung out her right to hail the Knight Bus, which immediately appeared.

As she tried to board it the driver looked at her burning wand. “You’ll have to put out that flame, ma’am,” he said. "Safety."

"Aren't there candles on this bus?" she said in some surprise.

"Those are enchanted so nothing catches fire," he said.

"This is a magical flame. It does not consume the matter on which it burns, and can only be spread with intention." He watched in surprise as she stuck her left forefinger in the flame and showed him the evidence that it was not burned.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Beerden," she said. "The town," she added quickly.

He looked at her as if she were crazy. The little village of Beerden had been deserted for two centuries due to fear of werewolf attacks.

"Just drop me at the crossroads," she said, trying to give him a Galleon.

"I'm afraid you can't bring that flame," he said. "Regulations prohibit passengers from carrying their own fire on the bus."

She had a feeling that he was using this to try to keep her off the bus because he did not want to take her to Beerden. She did not much like the idea of pulling rank, but suspected it might work. "Who is your employer?" she said.

"Department of Magical Transportation, Ministry of Magic," he recited, in a tone that indicated he knew she knew this perfectly well.

"I am going there on business related to my work," she said, "which my colleagues at the Ministry will not be pleased to hear a Knight Bus driver has been obstructing. Magical Transportation is required to be of service to Ministry business."

He still looked at her doubtfully, and she knew that he wondered whether her going there alone could possibly have the approval of the Ministry. It was not the look of a Legilimens, however.

"Very well, ma'am," he said reluctantly, "but if anything catches fire, and there's any damage, I'll make it known to my department that you violated safety regulations so basic I doubt your department has any business overriding them."

"Fair enough," said Hermione, as he took her coin. She chose a seat near the front, where she supposed the angle of the vehicle's turns would be less. She focused her intention on the flame not spreading, while by leaps and bounds she was driven back south toward her destination.

***

In the wake of his painful episode with Granger, Gillyfeld had decided that, in the interest of not breaking any more hearts, it was time to commit. A man his age probably ought to find a partner, if he could find a suitable one. Noticing on Monday evening that his owl was ruffling his feathers and seemed a bit restless, Gillyfeld sent him out with a note to Bette Barbary advising her to be on her balcony the following evening at six and to look over at the northwestern part of the sky.

He had decided on something romantic. He had never done it before, but was going to try to create a meteor shower. He had finished his hospital shift in the early afternoon and had then gone out and collected a quantity of rocks, and then coated them with a magical preparation that he purchased on Diagon Alley. As evening came on he cast the necessary spell on them, packed them in a shoulder bag, and set off on his broom toward the northwest, gradually ascending as high as he possibly could without becoming unable to breathe. It was slower going than he had realized it would be, and before he threw out the rocks he was already starting to have doubts. He didn’t even know whether she wanted a relationship with him. A meteor shower was considered a pretty serious gesture. It might be putting pressure on her that she didn’t want. This was why he never did this kind of thing. But he threw the rocks and watched them burn up as they fell through the sky. At least he had pulled it off.

He descended again and back into London airspace, navigated to her building, and alighted in front of it. She was on the balcony, and when he looked up at her, she had on a silly smile that he had seen before.

“Oh Steve, you shouldn’t have,” she said in a similarly silly tone, clapping her hands together, and he knew that everything was alright.

“Can I come up?” he said.

“Can I come down?” she said. “It’s a beautiful moonlit night, and I feel like going for a walk.”

“Sounds great.”

When she met him outside she produced the parchment on which his note to her had been written, and read aloud:

_"Tomorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold_

_Her silver visage in the watery glass,_

_Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass.._.

"It's a good thing you wrote underneath that in English, or I would have been baffled."

"The verse is in English," said Gillyfeld. "In your forays into the Muggle world, did you ever hear of William Shakespeare?"

"Yes, I did, though I've never seen any of his plays. Is Phoebe a Muggle name for the moon?"

"Must have been. One of many, I think. Someone once opened a door to that world for you, and I'd like to keep it open, because I still have a foot in it myself. I want you to know that there are things in it that are as beautiful as anything in the magical world."

"Aren't the most beautiful things," said Barbary, glancing at the moon, "the ones we have in common?"

He kissed her. "Can we go to the Witches' Heath?" he said.

"Easily. We can walk there from here."

When they had reached the privacy of a meadow next to some woods in the heath, he paused and turned to her.

"I have something to tell you," he said. "I recently did something that I'm very ashamed of."

"Whatever it is, I've probably done it, and been less ashamed. I am a Slytherin, you know. When you find out all there is to know about me, I'm not sure I'll meet your standards."

"I love everything I've found out about you so far, and I'm looking forward to anything I will find out in the future."

"I feel the same way about you."

He had made a resolution. "Would you be interested in marriage, then?"

"Marriage? No, not particularly. Anyway, we hardly know each other well enough to make such a commitment."

"I would have felt the same way but--well, I've recently changed my thinking, because I think I've been too noncommittal in the past."

"I don't like to plan too far ahead. You can never count on the future. If I expect too much from the future, I've found it leads to sorrow. Tonight we may be happy, but who knows about tomorrow? So why not just enjoy what we have now?"

"Could it be that you feel that way because of what happened in your past? Things are different now. Should you let that forever color your expectations of the future?"

"Do you see the moon?" she said, looking at it again.

"Hard to miss on a night like this."

"Tonight it's full, but tomorrow it will already be waning. Every night it's in a different phase, a different place. Tomorrow night will already be different."

"You make it sound as if we can only be lovers when the moon is full. Anyway, the moon is more predictable than you make it sound. You can count on it going through the same cycle every month, whatever Juliet said."

"Juliet?"

" _O swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon_..." He could not remember the rest.

"More Shakespeare?"

"Yes. I've been looking at it lately, because some people advise it, if you aspire to be romantic. Or do you not want me to aspire to that?"

"I do, I do," she said. She sat down on the ground, facing the moon, and he sat down next to her and put an arm around her, and she leaned against him. The late autumn night was becoming very cold.

"It's getting rather cold to be sitting out here," he observed. She stood up and raised her wand.

“ _Accio leaves!_ ” she said. Dead autumn leaves from the nearby woods came swirling around them and settled in a large pile with them in the middle.

“Brilliant,” said Gillyfeld, standing and pushing away the leaves covering his head, as she did the same. The leaves trapped insulating air and already they felt warmer. She lay down under them, and he lay down next to her. He did not want to be presumptuous, but he must not forget again…

It must have been another meeting of the minds, for she stood up, aimed her wand at him, and cast the contraceptive spell.

***

As soon as Hermione stepped into Beerden Forest, she knew it was magical. She had been here before, but never at the full moon. The forest was full of majestic old trees, the ground covered in moss that muffled her footsteps. The leaves above were so dense that little moonlight penetrated, but the luminous lunasturtia flowers were visible everywhere, as well as small white mushrooms near the bases of the trees. Small animals scampered about, and some of them seemed to stop and peer at her, her magical flame reflected in their beady eyes. Looking up, she met the large yellow eyes of an owl, also illuminated by her own light. She felt as if she were carrying moonlight into the forest.

The compunction she would have felt about carrying a burning torch into a forest had been offset by her belief in the statement that the fire could only be spread by intention, since so far the flame was behaving as described in the book, but even so she was relieved to see that the forest seemed to be damp, as if it had recently rained there. A brilliantly and eternally burning forest would be the Ministry's worst nightmare, given the difficulty of hiding such a thing from Muggles.

Then she saw something that startled her. There was a commotion in the leaves above her, and a small creature with webbed black wings fell from a branch to another one below it. A bat! She hadn't known there were bats in this forest. She lifted her wand a little and could see several of them in the canopy. Then she remembered a mention of bats in the book. They were the ears of the Sorceresses here, and the owls their eyes, if it was all true...

Her expedition this night was experimental, undertaken in the quest for knowledge, as well as out of her sense of responsibility. She had believed, but wanted more evidence, that the Sorceress book was not a hoax. She also needed to know who, if anyone, would come to this forest on this night. If a werewolf came and attacked her, she might be rescued by the Sorceresses, and see them and their hiding place for herself. Of course she hoped no werewolf would come, considering what it meant for the future of the werewolves, but if any came, and the flame was enough to protect her, she could find out for herself who it was before anyone else did. If her faith was broken on every front--if the book had lied, and werewolves came--the results would be catastrophic, but since she had tested the flame before coming, she knew there was truth in the book. If the worst should happen, then perhaps she had been wrong about everything, and perhaps there was no more place for her in this world anyway. It did not occur to her that this uncharacteristically desperate thinking might have anything to do with her having recently been crossed in love, for she had put that behind her.

She lowered her wand and, holding it near her, slowly and carefully walked through the forest toward a place she remembered. There was a particularly big ancient oak tree in the northern part of the forest with more open space beneath it, since other trees were not able to grow very near. She arrived at the tree and cleared the few dead leaves away from an area on the ground nearby. She laid her wand horizontally on the ground, and the flame continued to burn upright from its tip.

She remembered what she had told the staff of Werewolf Support Services, and she knew she needed to gather some lunasturtia. She pulled a large flask out of her bag, and began to pick the white flowers and drop them in. It did not need to be much. She was considering how long the moon had been up by now, when there was movement in the nearby trees, and she dropped the flask and reached for her wand again as she saw a hairy snout emerge from behind one. But she saw almost immediately that it was too small to be the snout of a werewolf, and soon the head and body of a fox emerged. A mother fox, she soon guessed, because three little ones followed close behind. Hermione put her wand down again and reached for the flask and its stopper, closed it, and returned it to her bag.

The fox family sat down in the light of the flame, and the mother licked her cubs. Then she disappeared back into the trees, seemingly leaving them alone. Was it possible that she knew they would be safe there while she went away to hunt for food? Soon there were more rustlings in the trees and undergrowth, and other animals came, squirrels and rats and rabbits and hedgehogs, seemingly drawn to her magical light. None of the animals molested each other. Hermione picked up her wand again, feeling like their protector. She thought of the hunting mother fox, and wondered whether she would find anything, as it looked as if all the small, hunted animals were finding their way here. She thought of the element of cruelty in nature that could not allow both predator and prey to survive.

She would keep up her vigil all night. Her sense of companionship with the animals and the fascination of the magical forest, as well as the power of her magical flame, kept her interest and awareness in the present. She was ready for what would come, but no werewolves came, nor humans either. Very late, when most of the night was spent, there was a fluttering in the branches above her, and an owl descended from the trees, and she recognized it as the brown owl that she had seen on the tombstone that evening. In its claws was folded a piece of paper of a type she now knew well, handmade from plant fiber. It dropped the letter on the ground at her feet and perched on a nearby branch. Hermione squatted on the ground and unfolded the paper with her left hand, while still holding the burning wand in her right. The handwriting was familiar too. She read by the light of her flame:

_Dear Hermione,_

_I am fine. The Sorceresses are behind you but don’t want you to give them away. I am going to stay here for the time being._

_Love,_

_Sally_

Hermione laughed. As she rose, she put the paper in an inside pocket of her cloak. When she withdrew her left hand from her cloak, the owl flew over and perched on it, so she continued to hold it partly raised, while her other hand raised the flame again.

When the first morning birds began to chirp in the trees, Hermione felt somehow vindicated. If anyone familiar with Greco-Roman mythology could have seen her then, standing serenely with the owl perched on her hand and the look of wisdom that was in her eyes, they might have thought that it was indeed the goddess Athena who graced those woods with her divine presence in that pre-dawn hour. At first light the owl flew away, and Hermione closed her left hand over the flame on her wand, and it was extinguished.

***

The werewolves who had spent the night in Morden Forest were stumbling out of it in the early morning light. They put on clothes that they had left at the edge of the forest, and congregated in the area of a large old fallen tree that several of them sat on. Trackless, who was one of the first to come out, watched the others as they followed and appeared to be doing a mental calculation.

"Do you think anyone went to Beerden?" said Will.

"No one went to Beerden," said Trackless.

Mercer came out of the forest and the other werewolves did not look at him. "I guess I'll go home and sleep it off, " he said.

"Be sure to stop at the first fancy hotel you can find," said Reilly. No one laughed. 

Mercer walked off alone. The others hung behind, resting. Finnegan walked over to where Reilly and Trackless were seated on the log.

"What made you so sure that man was lying?" he said.

"My mother was from West Hartlepool," said Reilly. "The accent wasn't right."

"That joker was the tipping point," said Trackless. "All of the pieces fell into place, if you looked at it soberly."

"Soberly?" said Finnegan, looking at Trackless as if he were joking. "I was just going to ask you if you'd like to come back to London with me for a morning after cocktail. I have the truck."

"Could you give us a few minutes?" said Trackless.

"We'll catch up with you in a bit," said Reilly. The others were dispersing.

"In a bit, then," said Finnegan.

He walked away as Trackless and Reilly rose and walked together along the edge of the forest.

"What made you decide to stick your neck out, then?" said Reilly. "It wasn't like you to take a side."

Trackless sighed. "Do you remember me ever telling you that I was going to be married, but my bride broke it off because I was bitten?"

"Such things are best forgotten," said Reilly.

"I was going to do lots of things. My whole future was in front of me." Trackless seemed to be staring at something invisible in the distance, and Reilly saw an expression of pain that he had never seen before in that face that had usually appeared to others as a sardonic mask.

"I wanted to have children," Trackless continued. "That was one of the reasons I was getting married. I wanted to help raise the next generation. I cared about what kind of world my children would inherit. And then my dreams were shattered. Who has dreams in the Den?"

"So it goes with us werewolves," said Reilly, shaking his head. "All we can do is forget."

"Someone appealed to an emotion that I tried to drown under a flood of whiskey for forty years," said Trackless. "That what I did made any difference to the people who came after me." He was caught in the memory of the future he had once seen in front of him, and the reality of his lost life, of the decades in which nothing worth remembering had happened, seemed stretched out beneath it in an abyss.

"She said she loved me."

"Ah, they all say that. And then ..."

"And then you become a werewolf and find out the truth," said Trackless bitterly. In an uncharacteristic gesture, he spat in the direction of the forest.

"Now I've planted my seed for posterity," he said, "I guess there's nothing left for me but to go home and die."

"Don't die, old man. Don't die."

***

Hermione was sleeping it off. She had called in sick, something she had seldom done in the six years she had worked at the Ministry, so she had unused sick time, and expected it would not be held against her. She was awakened toward midday by a familiar feeling, and she immediately realized what it was. She reached into the drawer of her nightstand for one of her sponges, and then she rose from her bed and reached for her wand.

She pulled back the covers, and as she expected, a large dark red stain was spreading on her lower sheet. She aimed her wand at it.

" _Scourgify!_ " she said. The stain disappeared under a mass of soapsuds, which then magically disappeared themselves, leaving the sheet clean and dry.

She put her wand down, stretched and smiled. She really _enjoyed_ being a witch. _This is where I belong_ , she thought. She had no regret for the Muggle world she had left behind, or wish to withdraw to an all-female society. She had her work cut out for her as a witch in the Wizarding World.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Three: The concept of a certain type of woman being "an Athena" was spoken of by radical feminist Mary Daly in her book _Gyn/Ecology: The Metaethics of Radical Feminism_. Athena’s judgment in the case of Orestes is from the _Oresteia_ by classical Greek playwright Aeschylus. 
> 
> Chapter Four: The verse sung by Bette Barbary in the elevator is from the song “Sunny Afternoon” by the Kinks. “Last of the Steam-Powered Trains” is also a Kinks song. 
> 
> Chapter Ten: "Subtraction Soup" alludes to "Subtraction Stew" from _The Phantom Tollbooth_ by Norton Juster.


End file.
